Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/197

 They were the days of my youth! Long, long days, yet each hour but a little one, Gliding and gone without sweep of the paddle. House of Hine! O home of my tribe! To the fingers and feet, to the eye and the nostril, Returning not—wherefore return ye (As the bright waves, when at breath of the shore-wind, The fog volleys seaward) Home, here, to my heart? ..Ha! the sheen in the sunlight. Ha! chant in the house of the weavers. Ha! gloss of the well-prepared flax. We weave, O my sisters, along and across, A white mat, a fine mat, a mat for a chieftain, A mat with gay borders, yea, fringed with a thick fringe of feathers, An heirloom mat for the tribe. ....Rise, Hine! Go, Hine, youngest of the weaving women! Ngairë the aged would drink—arise up quickly! Carrying thy calabash, hasten to the spring! The clear spring bubbling on the border of the forest. The sun reddens, the sun flashes. Bright in the eyes he looks...bright in the forest... Ah, ah, he flashes On eyes in the forest! Ah, ah, where yonder Burst from the foliage Our fishers, our hunters, and heavy their spoil. Foremost among them,