Poetry

Lake County Press, Issue 2393, 14 September 1911, Page 2

Poetry

FROM THE POETS. He that loves a rosy check Or a coral lip admires. Or from star-like eyes doth seek Euei to maintain his lires; As old Time makes these decay, So his Haines must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind. Gentle thoughts and calm desires. Hearts with equal love combined. Kindle never dying fires ; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. T. CAREW.

Right merry -at his labor Wc hear the farmer sing, And the rooster on the gate post Is telling R is spring.

CASTi-ES IN THE AIR. (By E Wilson.) Amid the myriad troubles that meet us day by day, Who would not from the conflict a moment turn away. And in a far-off fairy land, where men no burdens bear, forget awhile our tears and toil m “castles in the air.”

THE INTERPRETER. (By Florence J. Boyce.) The air is clear this morning, And carries every call; The world’s as full of echoes As an empty concert hall; The cock upon the gate post His neigbour challenging, Declares with cheerful gusto That winter’s turned to spring

When many a bright-hued prospect fades fast beyond our view. And hopes which neared fruition prove shadowy and untrue; May wc not in that dreamland, beyond all clouds and care. Behold our Paradise restored in "castles in the air”

Oh. there are lonely chambers in every home and heart. And in life’s song of sorrow each one must bear a part. But hark ! what mystic melodies soon hush the voice of care. As parted hands arc clasped once more in “castles in the air.” Then never glow discouraged though fortune favors not, And ye pursue life’s pilgrimage unnoticed or forgot; Wc have our hour of victory and lustrous laurels wear, For all are kings and conquerors in “castles in the air.”

He leads his mottled biddies With strut and chuckling laugh To forage in the barnyard ’Mid scattered hav and chaff; Then mounting to the gatepost He makes his clarion ring—■ It sounds as if he shouted: “Oh. don’t you know spring ?”

The cattle catch the spirit And gambol to the trough Across the crusted meadow The hound goes loping off;