SELECTED VERSE

Hawera Star, Volume XLVI, 7 August 1926, Page 18

SELECTED VERSE

LIFE TO THE POET. Life is the game wo children play, Till evening from Ihe dawn of day. Our mimic strifes that fill the j ears with little hopes and little fears, With loves ami hates, with lights and fames, These are no more than children s games, Though we may give them grander names, I sometimes play at being good, Or loch at pictures in the wood, Or in that nursery of green Hot out my toys of might-have-been, Far from the screaming girls and boys With drums and trumpets for their toys, Who think they make a grown-up noise. 1-MtC. :0 OFT THE .Ml UK. England. E ghuiu, Call us forth From iu: tin muk of Word and G-a ; : Reaffirm '. hv Native Worth, Make Thy Purpose plain. That has been Thy Will ere now, From King John’s hour till German might Rose up against Thy furrowed brow, But failed to put Tliee to the flight. Surely! Fairest Land on Earth, Mother of English-speaking men, Who grants our privilege of Birth, Has right of Conquest once again. Conquer Self for good of All— . Peace declared within the State— Conquer alien moods that call On us to play The Profligate. England, England, be but true To all that made Thee truly great; May blooms are beckoning to you— Uproot the Weeds within the Gate! Edmund Adburgham.

LACE IMA E RERUM. There is a beauty- in each hour — The grace and splendour of the flower; A loveliness akin to pain, In sunlight glistening through the rain! In sunset glory-, magic, brief, There is a .joy- a-nigh to grief, In rippling wavelets by- tlie sea A sense of dread immensity. ** There is a pleasure in the woods Alone, in leafy- solitudes; A sweet communion and ease In the, sanctuary of trees. There is companionship of books In sacred hours, in quiet nooks, A rapture in the wild bird’s call, And music in the waterfall. There is no beauty where the heart Does not in essence take its part! Nor where the ey-e or heart e’er sees A loveliness apart from these! There is a truth which will remain— When we have counted loss and gain— In love which looked through human eyes y And showed itself in sacrifice. A- love which counted self as nought, Which never once its own good sought, This is the beauty that not dies, This the beatitude I prize. MYSTERIES. They- are only shimmering petals in a drift of soft mist-blue, Little fairy barques that tumble sweet and light; And they float, and sail, and wonder in a sea of star-kist dew Through the night.

It is but a wee black spider with, his web of silken thread. Quivering in the haze of evening mingled gray, and pink, and red, Silver-spun. ’Tis a sky of wondrous beauty flushed with glowing pink and blue, Fleecy clouds like little ragged elfin sails; i By the river lioney-flowers starry-cupped and filled with dew— Golden trails. Purple lilac, and wistaria, and a fringe of maiden-hair, And dim, shadowy pools that sparkle ’neath the trees, And the lustre on the apples, and the gleam upon the pears— Mysteries: And the memories that haunt us, and the dreams we all must dream, Vnd a. baby’s laughing face and helpless feet. All the little things, and yet . . . maybe without them Life would seem • Far less sweet. THE GIFT. September’s gold on hill and plain, The hillside’s' quivering blue. The rose’s perfume after rain, I bring them all to you. The beauty of the busliland trees, The thrilling wildbird’s song. The honeyed sweetness in the breeze, ' Tliov all to you belong.

The poet’s dreams, the sweet regrets, The faces that were kind, The mauve of hillside violets Treasured for you to find, All gracious long remembered things, Life’s gold ... I bring you this, The joy of all that lives and sings—

You call it, our first kiss. Olive M. Stevens in the Sydney Morning Herald.