SELECTED VERSE

Hawera Star, Volume XLV, 20 February 1926, Page 16

SELECTED VERSE

A HAND ON YOUR SHOULDER. When a man am c got a cent, And he’s feeling kind of blue, And the clouds hang dark and heavy An’ won’t let the sunshine through, It’s a great thing, Omy brethren, Fer a feller just to lay His hand upon your shoulder In a friendly sort o’ way. It makes a man feel curious, It makes the tear drops start, An’ you sort o’ feel a flutter In the Tegion of the heart! You can’t look up and meet his eyes; You don’t know what to sav When his hand is on your shoulder In a friendly sort o’ way. Oh. the world’s a curious compound, With its honey and its gall, With its cares and bitter crosses — But a good world after all. An 7 a good God must have made it— Leastways, that is what I say When a hand is on my shoulder In a friendly sort o’ way. —James Whitcomb Riley. MAPLE TREES PLANTED AT YPRES. ; When years of happy peace have soothed the world, Till hate is but a legend dark of yore: When Europe’s nations, following wisdom ’s lore, Have sheathed the sword and left the banner furled, Since doom on all oppressors has been hurled; As autumn brings French vines thfir purple store, Some passing wanderer from our distant shore Shall see, in soft September’s mist empcarled, Maples in scarlet glory, guarding dust Valiant and dear, forgotten nevermore.. His heart shall mingle tears with lofty pride. Flag of their splendor! Emblem of their trust; Teach our mean thoughts ,on nobler wings to soar! Rouse in each soul the flame of those who. died! A.E.F. J OUR LOST LAND. We see it, dim on the ocean’s verge, And catch a glint of its fairy bowers; Sweet comes its call o’er the restless surge, And a waft of scout from its fadeless flowers. While the wavelets whisper a magic rune, "East of the sun and west of the moon.’’ There lie the liop'es that we could not clasp, There live the loves of our bygone years; The jewels that slipped from our feeble grasp, The laughter that ended in bitter tears. \ We will find our dreams, be it late or soon, "East of the sun and west of the moon. ’ ’ And mothers, whose arms are aching still For babes who slipped from their eager hands, See children dancing on every hill, And children racing o’er golden sands. And they laugh as the nursery rhymes they croon, "East of the sun and west of the moon. ’ ’

When golden ladders link sea and sky, And the Bunged sinks in a purple nest, With curtains of crimson and azure dye; A royal king to his royal rest; Then the fairies dance in their silver shoon, “■East of the sun and west of the moon. ’ ’ —J. S. Litchfield in the Australasian. SILENCE. Earth is but the frozen echo of the silent voice of Cod, Like a dewdrop in a crystal throbbing in the senseless clod; Silence is the heart of all things, sound the fluttering of its pulse, Which the fever and the spasm of the universe convulse. RIVALS. Of all the torments, ail the care 6, With which our lives are curst; Of all the plagues, a lover bears, Sure rivals are the worst! By partners in each other kind Afflictions easier grow; In love alone we hate to find Companions of our woe. Sylvia, for all the pangs you see Are labouring in my breast, I beg not you would favour me, Would you but slight the rest! • How great soe’er your rigours are, With them alone I’ll cope; I can endure my own despair, But not another’s hope. —Wiliam Walsh (1663-1708). STRATEGY. -Should Love, forgetting how to smile, Brood sullen, inattentive, Leave him alone a little while, By way of an incentive. Prom all anxiety refrain, And do not try to smooth him; Nor ever languish or complain, For you would surely lose him. Behave as though you did not care — Love loves a little rigour . . . He’ll fall headlong into your snare, His love grown all the bigger! —Eugene Martin.

LEAVES. Red leaves, and gold leaves Dancing down the wind,! Are you never grieving For the trees you’re leaving Naked-limbed and lonely, And shelterless behind? Red leaves and gold leaves, Sere leaves and old leaves, Dancing down the wind! Gold leaves and red leaves, Scattered far and wide! Beech and larch are sighing For your glory lying, Life-bereft and lowly, Upon the bare hillside. Gold leaves and red leaves, Sere leaves and dead leaves, Scattered wild and wide! —Liam P. Clancy.