POETRY.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 264, 7 November 1931, Page 2 (Supplement)

POETRY.

(By Elsa Flavell, Hawera; age 14.)

Far, far away from haunts of man, amid great hills which rise from a widestretching plain, where the wind sighs and sings among the long, dry grasses, the Muse of Poetry dwells, with her attendant train of nymphs and spirits. Here, in the purple shadows which, fill' the valleys and hollows, they dance together, and weave magic spells of beauty and enchantment.

By day, the Spirit of Poetry flies abroad among men; her chariots are I clouds, and so beautiful is she that slie gives new beauty to her carriages, which shine like pearls and silver. To those she loves, the Muse whispers stories of wonder and delight, and sets before their eyes visions of beauty unsurpassed; and at night, these her servants may fly on the wings of dreams to join her revels in the hills, and when their life among men is ended, their spirits go to dwell with their mistress, to serve and worship her forever.

It is a wonderful gift which Poetry gives to those she loves —the gift of beautiful thoughts and dreams; but those to whom she gives this gift must write the stories that she whispers, for others to read. If they do not heed her one command, they will lose her favour, and never more see the magic visions of delight she brings.

What wonderful tales have the scribes of the Muse unfolded to the world—tales of chivalry and romance; strange, wild stories of mythology and legend; fanciful tales of fairyland, and graceful songs of Nature's beauty. Many who read them wonder and marvel, but cannot "understand; they vaguely feel that tliose who write the stories belong to a world apart—a world more beautiful than that to which the readers belong— a world of dream and beauty. They feel that there is something that they miss, but know not what it is, for they live in the world of the flesh, and the story-writers live in the world of the spirit.

But all poetry is not written on paper, with a pen. Nature herself is a servant of the Muse; she writes in words of fire across the sky at sunset and at dawn; she teaches the birds and the brooklets their songs; and what man ever wrote a poem half as beautiful as the poetry of the sea, when, on a calm, cloudless night, it chants beneath the golden lights of heaven? The seasons, too, all serve poetry. Spring's words are opening buds and green leaves. Summer's roses breathe out poems of fragrance; and, with sunshine for ink, summer writes upon the forest's floor, where the leaves and branches cast their shadows. In autumn's reign, leafy poems fall from the trees, while winter writes in letters of ice and snow.

Happy indeed are those whom Poetry loves, when she whispers to them; but, like the fairy Fortune,-the muse comes not at the wish of man, but at her own wayward will. Ah! elusive muse, whisper to me, if pnly sometimes, your tales of rainbow beauty! (Published by Arrangement.)