THE IDEALISTS.
Into the wine grey of the drawing room The burning words crashed like a fall of glass; The speaker's hair was damp, his eyes spat fire, His hand hneked at the air as faster The rods of words, bruising and fine as brass. Ilis tale was of the poor, their rags, their slums The disillusion of their wives, the cries Of under-nourished babies. Everyone Nodded agreement, frowned, and sipped at tea, And nibbled cake and uttered anxious sighs. And wondered what to do about it all, And felt like great reformers. Acid-keen His words fell on the Church, the schools, the State, And withered them with ridicule, and swept Society with thorns to make it clean. They rose to go. "Must meet again next week" . . . "A splendid speech" . . . nnd "Life is pretty grim If you are poor" . . . Each on his separate way, Went out into the winter afternoon, The fire of great endeavour warming him. —CHRISTINE COMBER, > Auckland.
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Bibliographic details
Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 65, 17 March 1934, Page 1 (Supplement)
Word Count
160THE IDEALISTS. Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 65, 17 March 1934, Page 1 (Supplement)
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