POETRY FROM PERIODICALS

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIV, Issue 13494, 22 May 1907, Page 9

POETRY FROM PERIODICALS

. NEVER TOLD A, LIE." HB was a wondrous man, they .say. • r. . . In that he never told lie— "What was his conversation, ; pray. - -i,, When folk told him ho lived too high? And did he never bend and sigh Some compliment that brought a pout To ruby lips that breathed "Oh, fie!" I wonder what he talked about. Did he, when skies were dull and gray, All wisely cock his weather eye And vow it was a perfect day? If he'd a horse some one would buy Did he for truthfuL standards try And bring all imperfections out? Though in his life I would not pry, I wonder what he talked about. Untrammelled by convention's sway He did not praise a soggy me;' He would not press a. guest To stay When wishing that that guest would fly; With other folk he would not vie : In boasting of attacks of gout; From social fibbing he was shy •—'.-. I wonder what he talked about. Of talk he surely soon went dryHe told the truth, I have no doubt, I But you whose fancy is so. spry, Pray tell me what he talked about. —Chicago Post. . MIEA. BENEATH yon yew tree's silent shade, Long, tufted grass the spot discloses Where, low in death untimely laid, Pale Mira's silent form reposes. The plaintive bird, at cv'ning close, Pours there her softly-mournful numbers; The earth its earliest sweets bestows. To deck the grave where Mira slumbers. There summer's brightest flow'rs appear; There oft the hollow breeze is swelling; The passing stranger drops a tear On Mira's dark unci narrow dwelling. . The moralist, with musing eyes, Loves there his pensive steps to measure; "How vain is human pride!" he cries; "Now soon is lost each earthly treasure! "To snatch the fleeting bubble, joy, How weak is ev'ry fond endeavour! We rush to seize the glitt'iiiug toy; It bursts, it vanishes for ever! "How soon our pleasures pass away! How soon our bliss must yield to sorrow! The friend, with whom we smile to-day, May wither in his shroud to-morrow!" Thomas Love Peacock. A DEATH. . . . . FOR. like a tree, I wither at the topSpeak out, I say; and what was that you said.' Like droning bees about a blighted crop. The words go buzzing round this hollow headSpeak out, I say. And so—is Stella dead? Proceed—the letter. Where the blot is, stay— I will not have a word of how she passed. This hand is shaken not by wine to-day. But like a branch that shivers in the blastThe curse creeps slowly to the stem at last. • '.'".' The Thames flowed meek enough by Chelscy when, Before I slept, I found the night was gone, In scratching letters with a rusty penPast Windsor willows it flowed smoothly on By Oxford meadows, above Abingdon. You shall not tell me where her hones are hid. For graves are common and are everywhere. With long lies sprawling on the coffin lid— The Liffey churns away to Celbridge weir, The Lord knows, hidden, there .are gravestones there. To choke St. Patrick with another bone. These Dublin people keep a space for me— Now, pen a .eiter to myself alone, An epitaph unon a fallen treeThat rotted slow and snapped the last of three. VIOLA TAYLOR, in the Westminster. I'M A EOVEK. I'M a rover! I'm a rover Of the greenwood and the glade! And I'll teach you to discover Every beauty of the shade! xm a rover! I'm a rover! Of the woodland and the dell! And I know the leafy cover Where the maiden-roses dwell! I'm a rover! I'm «. rover! Where her couch the lily keeps; And I'll bring you silly over— You may kiss her as she sleeps! I'm a rover! I'm <i rover! Where the cowslip quaffs the dew, i> uere the bee delights to hover. Come! I'll choose a cup for you! GEORGE DAELEY.