THE POET'S CORNER

Gisborne Times, Volume LXXII, Issue 11493, 21 November 1931, Page 11

THE POET'S CORNER

WAIROA

A fine wide river silent flows— But bar-hound by the sea; A ferry load —cars, lorries, -wool; The ruined bridge I see.

. Crashed and quake-torn buildings; And gardens wild with rose; The shriek of fire-siren That calls you from repose.

Then with tho siren’s dying moan The howling dogs join in— Then onco again the silence reigns, When coase the short-lived din,.

Council Chambers iii a garden. Close where the church bells peal; Long waving grass on patli and road Where fresh sea-breezes steal.

Where stately rhododrons grow And gay verbenas creep; There’s kind and cultured people In this river town of sleep.

And on the range beyond the team, Like many a pink; lined shell, The town of Napier ’neatli the hills —Where folk are brave who dwell.

Another glimpse—sea, indigo; Brown-pi ilk of rushy land; A lagooii purplo in its hue; Gold buttercups—a band.

And yellow lupins edge the sea; And fern and nikau pa!rn; And from the Wharoratas high See Gisborne’s nestling arm.

Lilco shells of white and rosy pink They cling to beach and hill, The mountains, sea, and- sky are blue, And the summer heat is still.

And in the Wairoa left behind— So pretty from the hill, I always will remember it As a place so green aud still. (Mary Ramsay Ellen Blair.) THE COACH OF LIFE. “Though often somewhat heavyfreighted. The coach rolls at an easy pace; And Time, tho coachman, grizzlypated, But smart, alert, is in his place. “Noon finds us done with reckless daring, And shaken up. Now care’s the rule, Down hills, through valleys roughly faring, Wo sulk, and cry: ‘Hey, easy, i ool!’ “The coach rolls on, no pit-falls dodging. Toward evening, more accustomed grown, Wo drowse, while to the night’s dark lodging Old coachman Time drives on, drives on.” —Alexander Ruthin, the famous Russian Poet. THOUGHT FOR THE WEEK. (From the “Boy Scouts Notes. ’) “The real men dare and the i real men do.' They dream great dreams which they make come true: They bridge tho rivers and link the plains, And gird the land with their railway trains. They make the desert break ' forth in bloom, And send the cataract through the flume. To turn the wheels of a thousand mills, And bring the coin to a Nation’s -tills. Tho real men"work and the real men plan, And. helping themselves, help their fellow-man. And the -sham mien yelp at their carriage wheels As the small dog barks at the big dog’s heels.” A THREEPENNY BIT IN BLANK VERSE. Tlio following is taken from the Parish Magazine of St. Martin, Sherwood, Nottingham: — “I am a threepenny bit; I am not on speaking terms with the'butcher. I lam too small to buy a pint of beer, I am not large enough to purchase a box of chocolates. A permanent wave won’t look at me. They won’t let me in at the pictures, I am hardly fit for a tip—hut, believe Tho, When I go to Church on Sunday I am considered some money.”