ESSAYS IN VERSE. THE POET.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVI, Issue 122, 21 November 1908, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE. THE POET.

Throwing his pen asido ; "If I knew life," he cried, ''Then could I write." But when with knowledge wido, Stained by life's purple fruit, Taking his pen one night — Lo, ho was mute ! — Armin Trebor. Appleton's Magazine. OF TIME'S GARDEN. Within the garden-ground of Time I stood, Whero roso the radiant blcoms of loveand life, And tho gold flower that is the sun's to wife ; In my fond summer idleness of mood I pluekod no flower of dreama for dreaming's food Unstained I kept the silver-gloaming knife, For all tho foolish thought of mo had strife If life or love-in-life should be moat good. One cast tho veils of night about my faco And gave me hold on some faint flower unseen, Crying, This is of passion drooped tho flower, Enter no more upon this pleasant place — Fool, thou hadst ,hold on love that might have been : Lo, no man hath his choice, but for one hour. —Ethel Talbot. Westminster Gazette. THE ELDER-TREE LADT. The Elder-treo Lady in, lacy gown Sits in her tree-top looking down ; Green are her cushions and grcon her bed, Blue is the canopy over hor head : ,The Elder-tree Lady is sweet and gay, And she nods to the children below at play. The Elder-tree Lady loans down at dusk, When the wind brings fragrance from rose and musk; She whispers sweet stories of Bed-time and Rest, And dear litttlo Dreams by e*ch white-pil-lowed nest, Till the children turn Homeward the shadows between, While the Lady sleeps softly on cushions of green. — Augusta Hancock. Pall Mall Gazette. THE TWO WHITE ROADS. O white Road of Dream! Winding over the hills, Past rock and valley and stream, Gorse-gold and silver of rills, The miles of your magic call Wherever my feet may roam, For I love yo^u tho best of all — ' j Dear Way leading Home. ! 0 white Road of Tears! i Winding amid the days, O'er tho hills of the waiting years. Past the rocks and tho waterways, 1 tread, the path of your plaint, Wherever my feet may roam, For tho miles of your magic 'faint Toward the Breast that is Home. O white Road of Time! Ways of Weeping and Flams The feet and the Leart must climb — I know yo are both the same ; For the Road of Sorrow -apd Ills, Wherever my feet may roam, Is the Soul of the Road o'er the Hills — Since both Ways lead Homo. — May Doney. Westminster Gazette. HOLLYHOCKS. The gorgeous glowing hollyhocks Which bloom beside our garden walks! They sway upon their slender stalks Like tropic birds upon the boughs Of forest by the Amazon, Where morn, in silence halcyon Paints fervid hues to marvel on Through noon's long languid drowse. The splendid showy hollyhocks! Maroon and gold, their colour mocks The butterflies in brilliant flocks Within a web of Eastern tiyes. Yea, hero in closes calm and sweet, Awhile allured by August heat, The tropics and the Orient meet Beneath our Northern skies. — Nellie Richmond Eberhart. Windsor Magazine. THE RUINED TEMPLE. ' (Grace Church, San Francisco.) A Temple in a Sunset Land I saw, Rent by the throes of Earth, the storms of Fire, , And o'er it brooded wide with spells of awe The doom that fell on Sidon and on Tyre. And many an arch and ruinous portal there Stood stored with memories of a, perished time ; \ Tho stark stones yielded echoes of a prayer ; The towers quivered with a ghostly chime. Forth from the shattered font an infant's cry Came forth, and soft the crumbling pillarß shed The strains of nuptial rnusio blithe and , high; — The paves rolled dolorous requiems o'er the dead. But when the moon smote with her wunds of white The solemn wreck whence all these voices poured, I heard Time's pinions beat across the night And saw the gleam of Death's annulling sword. — Herman Sohelfauer. "Looms of Life." THE SLEEPING CITY. Tho oity sleeps beneath night's crown of stars Dotting the dome like opening nenuphars ; Yet is there heard the endless undertono Of dead day's clamour, like the sea's faint moan Of the wind plaining amid straining spare. Not c'en in dreams the jostle and the jars Find full oblivion; still some echo mars Tho deep profuneSty, though, vast and prone, The city sleeps. Like some huge Titan brooding o'er old scars Received where ruin and wrath were avatars In the forefront of battle, lost and lone In some far place, some outer realm unknown — Until the sun the door of dawn unbars, Tho city sleeps. —Clinton Scollard. Sun (New York).i * THE MARTIN'S SONG. Dear Heart, to-day, somewhere I heard a mating martin sing, In his wild flight above my head upon a tireless wing. And with the note so now and sweet, so plaintive, strangp, and low, There seemed to flood within my soul lovo songs of long ago. He did not linger in his flight to rest nor yet to sing, I only caught a fleeting glimpso of polished breast and wing ; But with it oamo tho fragrant scent of climbing rosos red, And with it came tho memory of summer days long dead. Sweet summer days and glorious nights, when hearts beat fast and trao ; When clown the primrose path of life I wandered, Love, with you ; But now the days of youth are dead — the path of life is long ; And only memories of all come with the martin's song. -Will D. Muse. TTnala Tiatrurn'* jMLuCAzi&»<