POETRY OLD AND NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LI, Issue 15566, 25 March 1914, Page 12

POETRY OLD AND NEW.

THE KIND WORD. No note so sweet, 110 tune so rare As the kind spoken word Nor can the noblest song compare From loveliest voices heard. To this the boul'p endearing charm In formal beauty given. That speaks the mind's deep inward calm, The stepping stone of heaven. Take from the praise's vaunted hymn, The lays of gallant deeds: Philosophy's assertions grim And diverse doctrine's creeds. But give to me the sweetest note The ear has ever heard. In what e'er clime, from what e'er throat, The kindly spoken word. —Frederick Fenton. LOVE IN LONELINESS. As I let in the rosy dawn I heard her laughter calling, And in the garden as I went Her words like petals falling. All up and down the mountain side I heard her footsteps flying, And wind-blown through the shadowy groves Her murmur and her sighing. Among the snowy peaks at noon I heard her trumpet ring; And faintly through the falling day, Faintly I heard her sing. Beside the deep blue lake at dusk, Beside the murmurous shore, I heard her knock upon my heart And enter in the door. She brought bright flowers from oversea, iThe roses seemed her kin), And flung the cobwebbed shutters wide And let the white stars in. She swept the floor and swept the hearth 10 airy steps like foam). And set the chairs and tables right As one who is at tome. —Hermann Hac-edorn.

TEE POET AND HIS SONG. A song is but a little thing. And yet what joy it is to sing; In hours of toil it gives rie zest And when at eve 1 long for rest. When cows come home along the bars. And in the fold I hear the bell, As night, the shepherd, herds his stars, I sing mj song, and all is well. There ore no ears to hear ny lays, No lips to lift a word of praiss; But till, wiih faith unaltering, 1 live and laugh and love and sing. What matter yon unheeding throng? They can not feel my spirit's spell. Since life is sweet and love is long, I sing my song, and all is welL My days are never days of ease; I till my ground and prune my trees. When ripened gold is all the plain, I put my sickle in the grain, I labour hard, and toil and sweat. While others dream within the dell; But even while my brow is wet, I sing my song, and all is well. Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot, My garden makes a desert spot; Sometimes a blight upon the tree Takes all my fruit away from me; And then with throes of bittor pain Rebellious passions rise ana swell; But—life is more than fruit or .Train, And so I sing, and all is well. —Paul Lawrence Duj'BAa. ON BURNS. This man was of great Nature's primal seed, Inheriting her vast creative force. He spoke her language. They who deem it coarse Do but proclaim themselves of meaner breed. He traced her image in the lowliest weed— In daisy crimson—tipped or wilding gorse, Or in the eyes of faithful dog or horse; Love for her creatureshalf his simple creed. His faults and virtues had a common root; Their fibres twined in every spreading limb. Inextricable in each leaf and shoot. White-blooded formalist, sedate and prim. Utter not 'here your platitudes on him, For He Who made the tree will judge the fruit. —FB G, Gbeekwood.