The Poet’s Corner

New Zealand Mail, Issue 998, 17 April 1891, Page 4

The Poet’s Corner

A LITERARY SOLUTION. We sv»ood * n die bookstore together, • si le chaffing of this and of that; My heart keiA time with the feather That clung to L Pr Gainsborough liat. Or Stevenson, Stocku? D » an< -* Kipling And poets galore she b ;nthus<j<l; But how to prop iso to her, r..°Pdug With music and laughter, I m nae( h On this one and that one she tarried To label their place o/i the shelf; ‘ This ‘How to Be Happy Though Married’ Absurd and I thought so myself ‘ But those who have tried it may surely Be trusted to know,’ I replied. * I tell you,’ she said, ‘ it is purely The tone of the age to deride.’ ‘ The task for solution,’ I ventured, Is how to be married though poor ’ I know that I ought to be censured ; She looking to sweet and demure. Her voice was so low, 't was the border Of thought where itlbreaksjinto word ; ‘ We might,’ she said, ‘solve this, in order To prove that the book is absurd.’ THE ANVILMany hours have I stood watching By the village blacksmith’s anvil. Where upon the glowing metal Dealt he blow on blow like rain Forging'bolt or bar or horseshoe, Turning shear or pruning sickle, Or a link for some great chain. How the sparks at each concussion Flew in bright and burning showers, As the hammer, merrily ringing, Fell, and rose to fall again ; While beneath it all the anvil, Sturdy, strong and firmly seated, Never seemed to heed the strain. Many men have I seen standing Sturdy, strong, and firmly anchored, While upon them, like the anvil, Fell the blows of fala amain ; Turned they not from searching sorrow, Nor the very king of terrors, Proudly steadf.ist, true in manhood. Showed not where a blow had Din. ALL VERY WELL. It is all very well to be gay Wnen kind winds blow your way; The brave-hearted one is ae who can smile And pull ’gainst fate the while. *T is very well lo battle along When arms are lithe and strong ; But honour give great to the wounded,.one Who fights till life is done. ’T is very well to little complain Wbeu falls but little rain ; ’T is to the heart which sorrow doth drown the fairest crown, *T is very well that voices all raise To sing the hero’s praise ; Bul l shall sing, whatever the cost, Of him, the one who lost. It is all very well to be true When snares are far and few ; But I’m for him who can rise again From the depths of sin aiid pain. If we were angels, and not frail men, What need, what need, pray, then For Mary’s tears, for Calvary's cry— What, for a God to die 1