POETRY.

Bush Advocate, Volume XXII, Issue 60, 12 March 1910, Page 3

POETRY.

A LIBERAL EDUCATION. My only books Were women's looks—And Folly all they taught me. When I thus read What Tom Moore said, J all at once bethought me, How wise was he Not to agree With any grave professor; instead of page By musty age, He learned from woman, bless her! No need had Mooi*e To squabble o'er " The Eliot selection ; .Revise, dispute And substitute, While aiming at pertectin. Five feet of lore Had Thomas Moore j He showed a fine acumen. His gay bookshelf He chose himself— Five feet of lovely woman ! —Carolyn W T ells. THE RECALL. I am the land of their fathers, In me the virtue stays; I will bring back my children After certain days. Under their feet in the grasses My clinging magic runs, They shall return as strangers, They shall remain as sons. Over their heads in the branches Of their new-brought ancient trees, I weave an incantation, And draw them to my knees. Scent of smoke in the evening, Smell of rain in the night, The hours, the days, and the seasons, Order their souls aright; Till I make plain the meaning Of all my thousand years— Till I fill their hearts with knowledge, While I fill, their eyes with tears. —Kipling.

L'ENVOI OF THE HOOKED GOWN

When the last hooked gown's in the ragbag, and the , hooks are rusty and bent, When the buttoned gowns all are buttoned, and the dressmakers cease to invent

Dark schemes to annoy poor husbands, weary and worn and old— When our thumbs have ceased from aching and our heated remarks groAvn cold. We shall rest —and faith, we shall need it; at peace in a golden

chair Shall 101 l on a sort of throne like the man who'd the nerve to swear, And the man who set out with the wrong hook and ended the game in a fix Shall hear the cold ice tinkling . where the drinks of the gods they mix. There shall be no pads to confuse us, no store shapes to get in their place; No foolish, silly constructions, embroidery, or Irish lace; But all the hooking we do there, on that mythical friendly star, Shall be with a Sensible Harness up 'the Back of Things as They Are. —Boston Traveller. THE LURE OF THE DESERT LAND. Have you slept in a tent alone—a tent Out under the desert sky— Where a thousand desert miles All silent round you lie ? The dust of the aeons of ages dead, And the peoples that' trampled by ! Have you looked in the desert's painted cup, Have you smelled at dawn the wild sage musk, Have you seen the lightning flashing up From the ground, in the desert dusk? Have you heard the song in the desert rain (Like the undertone of a worldless rime), Have you watched the glory of colors name In its marvel of blossom time ? Have you lain with your face in your hands, afraid, Face down—Hat down on your face—and prayed, .While the terrible sand-storm whirled and swirled In its soundless fury, and hid the world And quenched the sun in its .yellow glaze— Just you, and your soul, and nothing, there? If you have, then you know, for you've felt its spell, The lure of the desert land. And if y6u havf* not, then I could not tell— For you could not understand. —Madge Morris.