A wind is sighing wistfullyDown the valley quiet and lonely,No green leaves to stir and quicken,Blowing over gray grass only.
Blackened, gray and moss-enamelled,Here and there are tree-trunks showing,Lichen-stained, the old stumps crumbleIn their rifts, green fern fronds growing.
Desolate and sad the valley,And the little stream unshaded,Sadly flows in shrunken beautyBy its banks once forest-shaded.
Now I hear a sheep call faintly,Then the rustle of the grasses,Such a mournful silence breaking,As the wistful wind down-passes.
Tane! Tane! Is it youMourning in the empty placesWhere your forest trees once grew?Where the rimu's drooping greenAnd the kowhai's gold were seen;And the matai's lofty headAnd the rata, burning red;Where konini berries hungAnd the birds your praises sung?When the sun could only gleamIn shafts, leaf-piercing, on the stream;When vivid, glowing, pulsing lifeBeauty achieved in forest strife-- Tane! Tane! is it youMourning in the empty placesWhere your forest trees once grew?
