ESSAYS IN VERSE

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIX, Issue 144, 19 June 1915, Page 16

ESSAYS IN VERSE

BEHOLD THE MOTHER! Behold a slave upon a throne; her hands arc bound; Tho' heavy fetters bind her limbs, her head is crowned. Her wide far-seeing eyes brood o'er tho ' earth ; She counts the soldiers of tho world, she gave each birth. Of all tho sailors on the seas, there is not " one But lay upon her brea6t a loved son. _ Each toiler in the mills, those the mines hide, The laughing schoolgirl and tho fettered bride, The countless prostitutes, by man. beguiled, Each lay within her arms a loved child — And yet ehe may not make their wrongs her care, She is not freo to make the world more fair ! She sits with haunted oyes which' visions see, An alien in an alien land where man alone is free ! — Marie Blymyer. Woman's Journal. I KNOW NOT WHY. I lift mine eyes against the 6ky, The clouds are weeping, so am I; I lift mine eyes again on high, The sun is smiling, so am I. Why do I eraileY Why do I weept I do not know; it lies too deep. I hear the winds of autumn sigh, They break my heart, they make me cry ; I hear the birds of lovely spring, My hopes revive, I help thorn sing. Why do I sing? Why do I cry? It lies so deep, I know not why — Morris Rosenfeld. Springfield Republican. THE BOTANICAL GIRL. The petals of a rosebud Lie folded in a book, That has on all its pages A very learned look. I read therein quite often, And when I turn the leaver A little breath of fragrance That dried-up rosebud gives. Awakens dormant memories Of one who plucked the flower When walking in a garden One mellow twilight hour. Her face was more than lovely, Her lips were very near ; My own began to whisper A. pasMonato "My dear." My hands stole round her girdl*, Here on my shoulders lay, Our heads got close together — My hat was in the >\ay — A footfall close behind us Broke off expected bliss; We spoke about tho flower, "What a lovely bud is this!" Aud then we talked co learned I Of petals, leaves, and bracU, Of pistils and of stamens, And evolution's acts. The petals of that rosebud Be read by him who can. The giri who talked about them Now loves another man. — J.B. Western Mail., CONTENT 0 worshippers of cities, I have seen The price you pay for all your tinsel toys: For walls of gray you give the waya of green, For btraifcened streets a wilderness of joys. You give your daughters up to sacrifice, You slay your sons as Abraham of God ! It has seemed to me you • pay a price For all your glitter and for all your gold! And you, you dare to pause to pity me ! — Who dwell beneath the sovereign sun and stars. You catch but echoes of earth's melody; I hear the morning play its opening bars. When banners wave, when guns assault tho air, When splendour shouts across the continent, When noise and strife are kings, then you are there, And I am hero. And I am well content. — Douglas Malloch. Arrericiii Lumberman AT THE END OF BLACK HOURS. 1 have drunk deep Of the well of bitterness. Black hour 6 have harried me, Blind fate has bludgeoned my bent head, And on my brow the iron crown Of sorrow has been crushed. And being mortal, I have cried aloud At anguish ineluctable. But over each black hour has hung Forlorn this star of knowledge; Tho path of pain too great to be endured Leads always unto peace; And when the granite road of anguish mounts Up and still up to its one ultimate And dizzy height of torture Softly it deeps and meets The valley of ondleso rest! — Arthur Stringer. "Open Water."