POETRY OLD AND NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15501, 7 January 1914, Page 10

POETRY OLD AND NEW.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?" TitKOUQH poppy-blooming fields you come, 0 Shape beneficent and fair! Your steps subdued, your lips are dumb. And sleeping flowers -wreathe your hair. Your silver wings along the land Their tranquil shadows softly cast, And peace within your quiet hand Is close enfolded, sweet and fast. What drowsy perfume is your breath, What gentle shelter is your breast; Some coward cries: " Beware—'tis Death!" The answer rises: "Nay, 'tis Best!" —R. M. M. NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hastening to its close; The little birds have almost Bung their last. Their small notes twitter In the dreary blastThat shrill piped harbinger of early snows: The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft' with the Mom's hoar crystal quaintly glassed. Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past. And makes a little summer where it grows: In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine, The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of ooiy brooks, which no deep banks define. And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array. Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. —HAnTLBT COUUUDM, A SONNET. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. And summer's lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or Nature's changing course untnramed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Not shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade. When in eternal lines to time thou growest: do long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. —SHiKEBPERB. OH, SORROW, SORROW. Oh, sorrow, sorrow, say where dost thou dwell ? In the lowest room of hell. Art. Thou born of human race? No, no, I have a fury's face. Art thou in city. town, or court? 1 to every place resort. Oh why into the world is sorrow sent? Men aJnicted boat repent. What dost thou feed on? B.oken sleep. What takest thou pleasure in? To weep, To sigh, to sob, to pine, jo groan, To wring my hands, to sit alone. Oh when, oh when, shall sorrow quint have? r>ever, never, never, never. Never till she finds a grave. Samt-bi, Rowlbt. AT DAYBREAK. In the blue sky one little star, And in cry soul a hopo so voung, And white and starlike, trembling still iiy Cod upon my life-string hung. ' In the. high tree a cheerful bird. And in mine ear a burst of song Jo bring me joy and soft-eyed peace, And make my pulses beat more strong. On the far hills a crimson shines. And in my heart a dawn of light— To-day Love's roses will be red To-day my hours will be bright. —W. J. Fischer. VIA VITAJE. Do you see the road a-winding through the Hear greon fields below? Hear the bridle-bells a-iingle on the horses as ihey go? Then beside blue flashing rivers, where the tall reeds softly sing Plaintive songs of weary autumn, lyrio carol ings of spring. Down the slopes wild pines rush headlong, tossing each his ragged plume. Plunging all its life and glory in a. shadowland of gloom. But the shadows but shadows— Hark, the bells are jingling still. See, it ends the journey mounting where the sun lights on the hill. Ernest Bt.A&fl. THE COUNTRY OHUROH. Why art thou white among thy thronging trees, White from afar upon the long hill's crest ? The country children gather at ray knees, T call the farmers to their Sabbath rest; The neighbours all are neighbours most through me; An upward path leads here, a path welltrod. Fair for their sake and constant must I be, The white church on the hill, watchman tor God. Flobence KzUiOao.