ESSAYS IN VERSE.

Evening Post, Volume LXXXVI, Issue 53, 30 August 1913, Page 13

ESSAYS IN VERSE.

THE DAT LENGTHENS. If there were no Winter How could one know The rapture of springing time When the things grow? If there were no tempests Should we not miss Joy oi the golden world, Its calm its bliss? Sap in the branches, And the birds wed, Hearts starved for love's delight, Look up, are fed. Blackbirds and thrushes In dusk apart Sing a song "pf Springtime To break the. heart. , Spring coming By bill and vile Flowere in her green kirtle Her golden veil. Moment too heavenly For mortal things 1 The shy hour, the dusk hour, Full of wild wings. If there were no Winter How should one know Hurry oi rainbow thingt Under the snow? 'Hurrying and striving, All to ba gone Into the new-made world From 'neath a stone. If there were no Winter, Nor death, nor dearth, Where then the joy of Heaven, The joy of earth? —Katharine Tynan. Westminster Gazette. TRAIN MATES. Outside hove Shasta, snowy, height on height, A glory; but a negligible sight. For you had often seea a mountain-peak But not my paper. Bo we came to gpeaJc. A smoke, a smile — a good way to commence The comfortable exchange of difference I You a young engineer, five feet eleven. Forty-five chest, with football in your heaven, Liking a roadbed newly built and clean, Your fingers hot to out away the green Of brush and flowers that bring beside a track The kind of beauty steel lines ought to lack, — And I a poet, wistful of my betters, j Beading George Meredith's high-hearted Letters, Joining betweenwhile in the mingled epeech Of a drummer, circus-man, and parson, each Absorbing to himself — as I to me And you to you— a glad identity! After a while when the others went away, A curious kinship made us want to stay, Which I could tell you now ; but at the time You thought of baseball teams and I of rhyme, Until we found that we were college men And smoked more easily and smiled again ; And I fr«m Cambridge cried, the poet still ; "I know 'your fine Greek Theatre on the hill At Berkeley!" With your happy Grecian head Upraised, "I never taw the place," you said. 'Once I wu free of class, I always went Out to the field." Young engineer, You meant as fair a tribute to the better part As ever I did. Beauty of the heart It evident in temples. But it breathes Alive where athletes quicken airy wreaths, Whiqh are the lovelier because they die. You are poet quite as much as I, Though differences appear in what we do, And I am athlete quite as much as you. Because you half-surmised my quarter-mile And I your quatrain, we could greet and amile. Who knows but we shall look again and find The circus-man and drummer, not behind But leading in our visible estate, As discus-thrower and as laureate? — Witter Bynner. Yftle Beview. THS EXILE'S SONG. Now I tread the city broadways, and my heart is sore, For the moor calls, and the wind calls, ' but I g6 there no more. And I'm fain for the lonely road, and a wild grey pky, And tho screaming note in a ourlew's throat as the rtin comes rushing by. Out beyond the < stream of traffic is a stream I loye, And the old hills, the dear hills, and the ; stars that climb above ; And it's there my heart is roaming while I stand in the street, And I hear a sigh of it dream gone by when the world was sweet. My ioul is eick of cities, and the crafty strife ; And if gold were all,' and greed were all, I have had enough, of life. But always night and day I hear the moorland musio creep To the heart that ehall be aching till I sleep. — Thomas Moult. The Academy.