SELECTED VERSE

Hawera Star, Volume XLV, 2 January 1926, Page 11

SELECTED VERSE

EARTH MUSIC. 1 have no words, no learning deep Wherewith to paint the joy I see; Or sing the pain, until it sleep In melody. Yet, Oh, earth’s beauty calls to me! I hear —above the busy hum Of all life’s endless sophistry— Her .seasons come! 1 hear the fairy feet of Spring That dance a down grim Winter’s ais es Till golden, o'er their bourgeoning Steal Summer’s wiles. I hear the kiss of em’rald seas Fall smooth upon the pallid sand — (A Judas kiss; storm follows these With livid hand!)

And thund’rous crashing surfs that leap Among the rocky cr-ngs, foam-piled With sweat of those vast births that heap The ocean wild.

And when on sun-parched cliff I lie All hushed beside the brink of earth Winds whimpering of life gone by, Of new worlds’ birth:

Or where the verdant- gully beams At peace above a dappled stream, Within a mist of memory seems To steal one dream:

Tih o’er the thankful drone of bees I hear again that honey-sweet, Low-murmured secret of the trees Where rivers meet!

What though devoid of eloquence To sing life’s bitter sweets that he I hear through pain (God’s recompense) Your melody! CLOUDS. L is to od and looked around where, far and nigh, The heather bloom was swaying m the air, The coluds chased one another down the sky Beyond my ..sight, .and everywhere The birds flew .through the sunshine, where they .sang So loud, iso clear, so isweet, the heavens rang Of lark and thrush and stare. I never heard a melody so sweet As I heard then ; I never knew .a day So filled with sunshine; never saw the feet And tinted clouds so high and free and gay; Each danced to the horizon like a bov Bet out from school, each tumbled in its joy And ran away. —James Stephens, in “Songs irom the Olay.”

NOD. Softly along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose, Wrinkled with age, ,and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold, To where the sun’s Last beam leans low On Nod the shepherd’s fold. The hedge is quick and green with briar From their sand the conies creep ; And all itihe birds that ily in heaven Flock singing home to sleep. Hiis lambs outnumber a noon’s roses, Yet, when night’s shadows tail, His blind old sheep-dog. Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all. His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more pam. His ram’s bell rings ’neath an arch of stars, “•Rest, rest, and rest again.” —Walter De La Mare. BURNING GRASS. Orientals burn their incense In a fancy bowl of brass; But to me the ks.weete.st fragrance Is the .smell of burning gr.akS*s. Orientals burn their intense Where they worship, where they live ; But I. take mine from the woodland, Take what burning leaves can give. For my altar in the springtime Is the earth on which 1 kneel, Searching for the buds and blossoms Which the sun will soon unseal. And my home i.s in the country, Where at eventide 1 .see Flames that light the dark horizon, Silhouetting bush and tree.

Orientals burn their incense. But their .altars shill are dead: Mine bursts forth in living glory, Flowers by the ashes bred. THE THINGS DIVINE These are the things 1 hold divine: A trusting child’s hand laid in mine, Rich .brown earth and wind-tossed trees, The taste of grapes and the drone of bees, A rhythmic gallop, long June days, A rose-hedge lane, and lovers’ lays, The welcome smile on neighbours’ faces, Cool, wide hills and open places, Breeze blown fields of silver rye, The sweet wild note of the plover’s cry, Fresh Spring flowers and scent of liox. And soft pale tint of the garden phlox, Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon, A flight of geese and Autumn moon, Rolling meadows and storm washed heigths. A fountain murmur ou Slimmer nights, A dappled fawn in the forest husit, Simple words and the song of a thrush, Rose "red dawns and a mate to share With comrade should my gipsy fare, A waiting lire when the twilight ends, A gallant heart and the voice of friends.

GREAT SHIPS

The souhd of moving water is like a song—. Music with overtones and with white flame. A choir of many voices holding long The beauty of a sacred name. But a great ship upon a morning sea, Oblivious of tossing waves and fears. Is like an iron man, with certainty. Pushing aside the wind-combed years. —Benjamin Rosenbaum.