SELECTED VERSE

Hawera Star, Volume XLVI, 28 August 1926, Page 18

SELECTED VERSE

DAISY’S SONG.

The sun, with his great eye, Sees not so mueh as I ; And the moon, all silver, proud, Might as well be a cloud.

And O the spring—the spring! I lead! the life of a king! Couch’d in the teeming grass, I spy eaeli pretty lass. I look where no one dares, And I stare, where no one stares; And when the night is nigh, Lambs bleat my lullaby. —Keats SPRING.

Spring the sweet-spring, is the year’s ■pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maifls dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug. pu-we, to-witta-woo! Tl*e palm and may, make country house gay, Lambs frisk and plod, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear av birds tune the merry lay, ■ Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, .. Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet Spring! —T. Nash.

TO THE MOON,

Art thou pale for weariness of climbing heaven, and gazing on earth, Wandering eonipanionless among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? —Shelley.

THE DERELICT. '

Bound for the Haven of Nowhere, Hailing from ports forgot, Feared and hated —an outcast Craving a resting spot. Gleams there no light or beacon, Looms there no friendly land; The soul that was mine died in me For the’ lack of a guiding hand. Hopeless, I see the sunrise; Groaning, I greet each day; Aimless,' I grope and falter Into the beaten way.

Give me a blow in the darkness, Sink me deep, deep in the sea; Put me to sleep forever, Out of this misery! Abject, I watch my brethren Turn from me, passing by; Cursing me long for living! Vainly I wish to die! Lord of the storm and tempest, Strike me the welcome blow, Grant me a grave in the coral, A rest in the sands below. THE FLOOR OF THE SEA. . The floor is of sand, like the mountaindrift; And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From eoral-roeks the sea-plants lift Their bows, where tides nor billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there; And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air . . , v There, with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean , Are bending, like corn on the upland sea Then far below in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and goldfish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly Through the bending ttvigs of the coral-grove. THE POTTER “I am a potter, And fine is the clay of my working. True and smooth-running must be my wheel, Pure and glowing my fire. Plastic, the clay in my hands Receives in itself every impress; Strange, the clay in my hands Makes impress ineffaceable ever. Finely, carefully, lovingly My hands must fashion this vessel; Gently, gently, delicately, Must the turning wheel smooth it; My fl-re must burn it to a glazing. “I am a potter; My clay is the mind of a child.”