POETRY. THE WAYFARER.

Evening Post, Volume LXVII, Issue LXVII, 30 January 1904, Page 11

POETRY. THE WAYFARER.

Unknown am I and homeless, What of that? IV o friends 1 havo and none lo do me ill, All roads are home, each changing sceno a room, Each broken hedge a sunlit window sill. Uncrowned mn I, unhonoured, , Wl\at of thut? Green garlands hang for crowns above my way, And children's love and passing smiles are mine, The homugo of each windy wayside day. No bar da have I or singers, What of that? The birds nro mine and the old restlowisea, Tho spreading downs, t(heir urgent viking song, And all the deep woods' tender minstrelsy. No wealth have I or fortuno, What of that? Unfashioned jewels glimmer on each hedge, And great waves roll nnd glitter, reachifig out In endless pageant to tho wido world's edge. 1 No throne havo lor palace, .What of that? All dells are mine, all hidden dreaming glades, *Wh»ro streams slip by and murmur in my oars, And God sends poaco down solemn green ■• arcades. And dfeath '■will come some day, and What of that? No strangers are we, quiet earth and 1, And there's uo syjot that cannot see one star, „ Or hear tlie grqafc winds thronging down tho sky. ' —H. H. Boshford.'in the Now York Tribune, HOP^S KNTOHT. St«el»vi»ored rides a kuiglil across the hills, Bearing a joyous banner, ringing songs Of borrow comforted and sin forgiven, Of quarrels 'reconciled and ended wrongs. t « sings the wonder of the changing earth, 1 The gold of harvest-time and Spring's tomonow, The lasting peaks, the* dreams the valleys hold : Tho *pl«ndid setting mado for joy, not sorrow. The people run beside his'bridlo, rein ; He gives to each the gift he carries j hidden, F And non« may weep before the joyous knight. Grief veils herself arid tears Shrink back forbidden. Courage, he bings. Courage, and. hops, and joy, •And gladness of the world. But when night r , If you a' mid cone r.pon him privily And see his faca, his eyes are full of lean E.C., In the Westminster Budget. WHICH? "This way," says Youth, "I'll have it so, No matter what the issue. A thousand, thousand clouds between, I'll aim and shall not miss you. "Young blood is warm, and Spring has come, And — Love, your eyes aro speajring. . Soul sings .< to soul, for wo- have found , What others still are seeking." But Middle Ago calls back to Youth: " 'Tia foolish fancy merely. Coriie, sit- in calm reflection hero, And weigh the balance clearly; 'Trust not the pulses' fovered glow, Nor ftigh nor love-birds' twitter : Thee© aro but tricks to wreak us woe, And bring us rue most bitter." And then Old Age says, gliding in: "List not to prudence only, But when Lovo comes, dare all to win— Or b* for ever lonely." — Fita T., in the Westminster Budget.