WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8367, 1 March 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes." EVENING IN BOSSHIBE. I walked the wonderful hills When sunset pours His wild and terrible kiss Through heaven's transparent doors. Where million-mouthed winds Divine and grand Sweep through the desolate And lovely land. Beautiful heather spreads U nbrowsed—untied ■ Primeval red of reds. Symbolic flush of God. And autumn girdled with gold And amethyst Flashed through the fiery dusk— Coloured the evening mist. The Spirit of Solitude On wings divine Stole, and her presence lent An arrogance to mine. I heard her magical step Like music pass, Then leave a murmuring sigh In each unearthly grass. The ghostly universe Grew sudden lit With dazzling of desires And visions exquisite. Illimitable heights And splendours wide Bade me to walk with God. And I was satisfied. ELEANORS NOSTON. "Westminster Gazette.” POS SIXPENCE. (In memory of the old days when the back seats at tho Abbey Theatre, Dublin, were sixpence.)

For sixpence I have been to Tir-narn-oge (No more I had to pay). And looked my fill at kings and gods and fools — May God be with the day!

For sixpence I have seen the heart of mirth And sorrow’s stricken face, Have laughed aloud, and dried my covert tears Before I left my place.

For sixpence I have left the world outside Bain-swept and chill and mean. And been a guest in Emain Macha's halls. Companion to a queen.

And all for sixpence X have heard fine talk Prom playboys, rogues and tramps. And so forgot the east wind in the streets,

The fog, the lamps. Sixpence the passport to ibis splendid world Enchanted, sad or gay; And you the playboy of them all I saw For sixpence—William Fay. W. M. LETTS. “Spectator.-” FLEUEETTB. (An Old French SongJ 'To the gallant fete, Fleurette. To-morrow wo will go; Henri Qoatre with a great train Comes to the chateau ; By the white plume in his cap Thou the King wilt know." "Emghts and ladies,” said Fleurette, “Gay the eight will be, I will look for the white plume. But my heart will see. While my eyes gaze on the King, Dearest, only three.” —E. L. GALES. A BUGLE SONG. A clinking of steel; a trample of feet Bang loud in the street; a trumpeter’s call Blared forth, and the wall re-echoed the peal; “Tarantarajn-! Tarantararara!” Their helmets were bright, their lances a-row; "O where is our foe?" the trumpet it cried. A dpim-beat replied: ‘To-morrow we fighti Bat-tat-at-at-too! Bat-tat-at-at-too!" They flashed ont of sight, to’ trumpet and drum, ‘‘No foeman dare come to face them!” we cheered. Dark fell and we feared. like lions at night Loud roared for their prey the ravenous guns. Pale Dawn of the Day, you flushed like a bride To se our troop ride through steel and through Are. When Death called "Eetire!" the “Advance!” Glory blew. Of fifty red Lancers but five galloped through! -P. P. G. “Spectator.” TO A DEAD BUTTE EFLY. Thou has lived in the light of the sun; Thou hast laughed with the music of spring; Till Death came on a blue summer’s day. Death, where is thy sting. When there is none to lament. No funeral, no hereafter; Naught but a handful of duet And an echo of laughter? —H. WESTON. IN LADY STREET. AH day long the traffic goes In Lady street by dingy rows Of sloven houses, tattered shops— Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tel-lers— TaU trams on silver-shining rails. With grinding wheels and swaying tops. And lorries with their corded bales. And screeching cars. "Buy. buy!" the sellers Of rags and bones and sickening meat Cry oil day long in Lady street.

Yet one grey man in Lady street Looks for the sun all day long A time is singing in his head Of yonth in Gloucester lanes. Ho hears The wind among the barley-blades. The tapping of the woodpeckers Oh the smooth beeches, thistle-spades Slicing the sinewy roots; he sees The hooded filberts in the copse Beyond the loaded orchard trees. The netted avenues of hops; Ho smells the honeysuckle thrown Along the hedge. He lives alone. Alone—yet not alone, for sweet Are Gloucester lanes in Lady street. —JOHFf DEIMK WATER. "Fortnightly Review.”-