Inez Isabel Maud Peacocke

(31 January 1881 - 1973 / Devonport, Auckland)

Comments about Inez Isabel Maud Peacocke

  • Rookie - 242 Points Connie Marcum Wong (9/16/2015 7:37:00 PM)

    Please add this poem to her collection:

    The Round Pond at Midnight

    I love to think when the light fails
    And all the little ships, with folded sails,
    Are safe in port, and all the gay
    Bay-captains and the pirate-kings
    Are done with high adventurings
    And gone their way—
    When the young moon, a pearly boat,
    A silver cockle-shell afloat
    In the wide spaces of the night,
    Lays down a trembling path of light
    On the pale ripples of the tideless sea,
    And the woods stir with mystery,
    Swaying together, whispering secret things
    With leafy sighs and hushed deep murmurings,
    When the dark pool is dark no more,
    But jewelled by the moon from shore to shore,
    A cup of crystal, round and tossing bright,
    Brimming with liquid flame and shimmering light-
    Ah! then! I love to think they come
    Trooping along the forest ways,
    Pixies and elves and sprites and flying fays,
    Some with wings filmy-pale and some
    Floating in airy rings from tree to tree,
    Linked with their living garlands, wild with glee,
    Or running pell-mell, shining, unafraid,
    A mazy rout across a moonlit glade,
    With flying footsteps and with gem-bright eyes,
    With wild, sweet laughter and with elfin cries.
    * * * * *
    Down to the shining pool the shining rout
    with many a silvery shout,
    And all are for the water now,
    Running their fairy shallops out,
    Some like a leaf with curling prow,
    Some pearled and painted like a shell
    Rocking upon the gentle swell,
    With sails of beaten silver, fine
    As a bee's wing and all ashine
    I' the moon. So, all night long
    The fairy fleet sails far and free
    To the beat of an elfin minstrelsy
    And the sound of song,
    Till the dawn-winds wake
    And the thin sails shake
    And the pale mist creeps on the shining lake,
    And the merry tumult of shouts and cries
    And music and laughter fails and dies,
    And the lake lies lone
    To the light of day.
    But whither are all the fairies flown?
    Only under the forest eaves
    Is the ghostly scurry of fleeing leaves.

    Isabel Maud Peacocke

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The Happy Islands

O FAR away, and far away,
The Happy Islands lie;
In bluer seas of calm than these,
Beneath a bluer sky.

The sea, a shining girdle, winds
Round cliff and cape and bay,
With flash and gleam, and there they dream,
O far and far away!

[Hata Bildir]