Some Poems.

New Zealand Times, Volume L, Issue 11655, 20 October 1923, Page 12

Some Poems.

Original and Selected.

A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK A rose-bud by my early walk, Ado\vtv a corn-enclosing bowk, Sac gently bent its thorny stalk, All on "a dewy morning. Lire twice Die shades o’ -dawn are fled, In a’ its crimson glory spread. And drooping - rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest. The dew .sat chilly on her breast Sao early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleas :re n’ the wood, Among- the fresh green leaves bedew'd l Awake the early morning. fro thou, dear .bird, young Jeany fair, On trembling string or vocal air, Shall sweetly pay the lender care That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upo-n the day, .And blew the parent's evening ray That watch’d thv early morning. —ROBERT BURNSLET ME LOVE BRIGHT THINGS Let mo love bright things Before my life is over . . . Moons and sinning wings Of bees about the clover. Bathers in seas; Cities by night, Tall rainy trees; Yellow candle light. And long sunlit lands That lie everywhere; And one with white hands To comb her gleaming hair. —A. NEWBERRY CHOYOfc. ’ MELANCHOLY | Hence, all you \ain delights, As .short as are the nights ■Wherein you spend your folly: There’s nought in this life sweet Tf nlau were wise to see’t, But only melancholy, (> sweetest Melancholy; Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that’s fasten’d to the ground, A tongue chain’d up without a sound! Fountain heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves— Moonlight: walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! I A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then .stretch bur bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. —JOHN FLETCHER. (“John o’ London’s Weekly.”) THE WIND Bring from craggy haunts of birch and pine. Thou wifd. wind, bring Keen forest odours from "that realm of thine Upon thy wing! iO wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, Blow through me, blow! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mi no From long ago. —JOHN TODHUNTER. LIVING The miser thinks lie’s living when he's hoarding up his gold, The soldier calls it living when he’s doing something bold, The sailor thinks lies living to be tossed upon the sea, But every man of Rotary will assuredly agree, When I hold to my opinion as I go my way along. That living’s made of service, and good fellowship and song. , I wouldn’t call it living to be alwavs seeking gold, To bank nil p.esent gladness for the days when I am old, I wouldn’t call it living to spend my strength for fame/ And forgo the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim, I wouldn’t for the splendour of the world set out to roam, And forsake mv laughing children and the place' I know as homo. No! the thing that I call living—isn’t gold or fnmo v at all; It’s fellowship and sunshine, and its roses on the wall; Tt’s evening glad with music and a heartfire that’s ablaze, And ti e joys that come from service in a thousand helpful ways, It is loading in the struggle,—the struggle for a goal; It is everything that’s needful in the shaping of a souk

HOW beautiful is night

Hoav beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; i No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain > 1 Breaks tlie serene of heaven; _ # 1 In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine j .Rolls thvoimli' tlie <!ark blue depths. i Beneath her steady ray ! The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girded Avith the * ftky, Hoav beautiful i.s night 1 —ROBERT SOUTHEY. 1 THE EVENING CLOUD A Cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, ' A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil Us spirit seem’d, .and floated 1 slow ! Even in its very motion there was rest: ' While every breath of CA*e that chanced to bloAv Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West. ' Emblem, me-thought, tof the departed soul! To Avhose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Hea\*en, Where, to the eye of faith it peaceful lies. And tells to man his glorious destinies. -JOHN WILSON. ; VAGABOND’S JOY There’s sunshine in the heart of in©, Mv blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me, I’m felloAv to the trees. My golden youth I’m squandering. Sun-libertine am I; A-wandering, a-Avandering, Until the day I die. -ROBERT W. SERVICE. SERVICE “T he.A'e no wealth of gold to. give away. But I can pledge to worthy causes these: I’ll give my strength, my clays and hours of case. My fine.'t thought and courage when I may, And take some deed accomplished for T cannot offer much in silver fees, But I can servo when richer persons play, And Avith my presence fill r.omo vacancies. There are some things beyond the gift of gold, Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold, A richer treasure’s needed hoav and then; The high occasion -often calls for men. Some for release from service give their pelf. But he gives most who freely gives himself.” -EDGAR GUEST. FRIENDSHIP You do not need a score of men to laugh and sing Avith you; You can bo rich in comradeship avxui just a friend or two. You do not need a monarch’s smile tc light your way along; Through weal or woe a friend or two wiil fill your days with song. So let the nmny go their wav, and let the throng pass by; The crowd is but a fickle thing Avhich hears not Avhen you sigh. The multitude is quick to run in search of favourites neAv. And all that man can hold for grief is just a friend or tAVo. When Avinds of faihiro start to blow, you’ll find the throng has gone— The splendour of a brighter flame Avill alwavs lure them on; But with the aches of your dreams, and nil you hoped to do. You’ll find that all von really need is just a friend or two. You cannot knoAv the multitude, lioat. ever hard you try. Tt cannot, sit about vour hearth; it cannot hear you sigh: It cannot read the heart of yon, or knoAr the hurts yoii hear; Its cheers arc all for happy men and not for those in care. So let the throng go on its way and let tho crowd depart; But one or two will keep the faith Avhen A'ou am sick at heart; And rich vnu’R be, pnd Avhen grey skies hide the blue, If von can turn and share your grief Avith just a friend or two. —EDGAR A. GUEST.