NEW ZEALAND VERSE.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 226, 24 September 1927, Page 29

NEW ZEALAND VERSE.

THE POETRY OF SPRING. PINK MAY , .

There's a secret sleeping in Albert Park, (Don't say a word till you see it). It is only waiting for warmth and sun, And soft spring rains to free it. On a grassy terrace two may trees grow, Brown are the boughs interlacing. No hint of green, or tint of rose Show 'mid the delicate tracing. But close inside there's a crush and a crowd Of little pink ladies all dressing In full frilly skirts like tiny rosettes. Tumbling and grumbling and pressing. Like little stage fairies they press in the wings (To me it's a pantomime story). Impatiently waiting the calling of spring To burst forth a mass of pink glory. Auckland. —RUTHYN.

PET LAMBS. Along the grassy orchard aisles, Under shadow and sun, Moan a comes to feed the lambs. And mocks them as they run. "You silly little stiff-legged things! You torments. Just like toys! Who took you off your painted stands. To jump and make such noise?" She stoops. Caressing sunshine lights, Blue dress and short smooth hair, And turns* to enow each curling fleece Of that sweet, sturdy pair. •Brown fingers in the milk she dips; They kneel (what tender knees!) And suck with baby greed. The wind Sings far off in the trees. It sings the same tune that it sang When this, our Earth, was new, And now Earth's old. Moana smiles Upon those greedy two. Then down the grassy orchard aistee, Under shadow and eun, Moana, leaving lambs behind, Begins herself to run. —PHYLLIS M. ROWLEY. Bermuda, "MY; LADYE DAFFODIL." In yellow glory like a kowhai blaze, My ladye made my jaded pulses thrill; For gleaming gently through the sunset haze Methought I saw a living daffodil. Slender and lissome as a swaying stem Of palest gold she there entrancing stood; A "Madame Buttercup." a golden gem, A sunny statue of dear womanhood. And at that glimpse of colour, memoryblown, My soul forsook the dull grey road I tread, And flew to lovely meadows, cowslip strown, Where primrose yellows springtime's beauties spread. O, Inspiration thon. of colour bright, Transfigured by thy sunshine garb and i smile, The road of gloom becomes a path of light. If I may walk beside thee for a while. —J. PEACHES. THE DYING CHIEF. [The ancestors of the Maori, who migrated to New Zealand about the time of the Battle of Bannoekburn, were bold sailors. They have oral records of sailing canoe voyages of well over 2000 miles in length, including a journey to tbe iot barrier of Antarctica.] Xorth bare I sailed from Tahdtl, Prom her pleasant wind-waehed groves, Past Xuku-hiva's turretry, To unguessed windless ores; Where the walls rose sheer—•« a drinking bowl— From sombre eea to the swelling sky; Where we felt a path to the hidden goal, Tho* tne cloven cliffs frowned nigh. Sooth have I sailed to the Ice-rim, To the place of the grinding floea; Paet lonely islets, bleak and grim, And reefs that the fur seal knows. Soirtib have I sailed till the sun seemed dead, ? To that cold, storm-breeding land. Where the white cliffs loom in the noontide gloom— Despair's own hopeless strand. South have I sailed and Northward, Anil now I must further fare. Spirit! I would go forward. Wbat course must I eteer —to where? Shall I sail North to the scented bays? ■Shall I journey East or West? Or 'South to the land of etonn-swept days ? Nay! I seek me a place to rest. Long have I fought, wide wandered. Hair wars, etout friends, bold foee! Oft and agate have I pondered— fifaall we meet to renew old blows? Will they greet me wltb olirb and with spear? Old bates and the axe's sweep? These things are deed. I would steer, To a quiet shore —and sleep. The old hot frets have vanished. Old bones grow tired and weak. Let me land where all nates axe banished. Spirit I Go forth and seek. (They know that I fought them fairly. Gladly they struck and fell: Fbune-like we strove, ah! rawly. How my old blood anawera the spell!) Ate! Fighting and feasting and fasting, Are finished for ever for me. It is time for the last, lone sea-casting— Bat what is the course to be? Shall I steer North to the Shining Isles? Shall I voyage East or West? Or South, down the pallid, troubled miles? Nay, I seek me a place to rest. —FRANK H. BODLR. Birkenhead.

THE HOLT GRAIL.

Dank and drear, with silence grim oppressed, The rocky walls with moisture ooz'd, A slimy film the floor o'erspread; Heavy the clanking chains that forc'd hie rest: The captive raie'd hie hopeless eyes 1 To scan the dungeon walls again ; Slow they sought the tiny silt on high, A spot of azure bine he saw; He heard a bird so sweetly sing, Rising, carefree, far into the eky: He thought of days gone by, when he, Aβ happy, revell'd in the sun, Bov'd amid the flowers gay, and sung, For very Joy. his Maker's praise. And felt the wind blow cool and soft Where the gracefnl honeysuckle clung And sway'd from trees around his home— The rery mountain air he breath'd. Home ! O sweetest word ! Again he saw Hie mother, smiling thro' her tears, A* proudly, with love, She bade him farewell; Tall and erect, Lie father, a hero of yore. Alongside of Richard, Coenr de Lion, The victor of many a gory fight, Bleaa'd him. his only eon, the young Crusader, To fight and attain the Holy Grail. . But now, in fetters cruel he's chain'd: Softly, all mi wittingly, a groan Escap'd his wan and bloodless lips; No more he'd see his home so dear; Hie was not. the sight of Holy Grail, Denied wae he Jerusalem; Again a lowly sigh he gave. Silence reign'd; the air bung damp and stale; He raised once more, his eyes above— And started, trembl'd, all amaz'd: "Fear not," soft the angel spake. "Arise; No more thon'lt be imprison'd here; The Son of God awaits thy homage; Victor shalt thou be, and this thy prize." The radiant envoy of bis Master Ontßtretch'd hi* hand; the cell with glory Flash'd and shone: the Holy Grail he raie'd. "My son, to him who seeks is given; Arise, thy quest it won and o'er." In Cbristos' adoration wrapt he gaz'd. Then stretch'd hie hands to grasp the cnp • Sweet cherub voices eeho'd nigh. Stygian darkness paes'd another day; The Saracen jailor, bearing food, Unlock'd the heavy bolted door, Danc'd hie torch's light on the form that lay *> still and silent, clamp'd in fetters. The face with heavenly glory shone; Parted in radiance, the lips, now red Aa holly berries at Christnrastide, A saintly, holy smile embrac'd; To Paradise the youthful soul had fled. The quest was o'er, the victory gain'd. The Holy Grail and Heav'n attain'd. —M. HUTTON WHITBLAW. Benmen.