VERSE, OLD AND NEW.

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume L, Issue 16498, 2 August 1924, Page 4

VERSE, OLD AND NEW.

LITTLE ROADS. The highway marches sturdily, to market-town and mill, But I would fin (I a, little road that loiters up a hill. A little, vagrant woodland road, greyribboned through the.green, Where berry brambles bar the way, and ore,hard elders lean. The highway is the world’s way, but I would drop behind To follow little, luring paths that only laggards find. The challenge of the . bandit weeds, the lilt with startled bees — What can the dusty highway give for journeyings like these? MARGARET LEE ASHLEY. DUST. When skirts were longer, many years Ago, she used to dance' Within this very room that wears A weary countenance. Weary of us who come and go! Of patient oak that must Reel folly slithering to and fro— Dust dancing in the dust! She died. Wo linger; pleasure calls Her round of joys and aches: Wc —dust—dance on through echoing halls Until the sleeper wakes. —From’Flower and Flame by JOHN CRICHTON. ft’ TO CRITICS. When I was 17 I hoard From each censorious tongue, “I’d not do that if I were you; You see you’re rather young.’’ Now that I number forty years I’m quite as often told Of I his or that I should bit do Because I’m quite too old. 0 carping world! If there’s an age Where youth and manhood keep An equal poise, alas! I must, Have passed it in my sleep. WALTER LEARNED. UP TO ITS. Whether life be Paradise, Or the . other place, Depends very much on us— On the way wc face Problems and perplexities, That all have to meet; • Everyone must some time take Bitter with the sweet. But. why mind the bitter part When the sweet’s so good? Would we have the sun to shine Always, if wc could? Aren’t all blue skies loveliest After skies of grey? Why not voice just pleasant tilings All along life’s way? For there’s good in everyone If wc strive to see; And there’s no use worrying Over what might be. If we can do the best we can, What is there to fear? 1 What good was the worrying That wc did last year? lIELBA BAKER. IF WINTER COMES , I will anoint, as ’twere a' king, the mower's gleaming blade. Ear from the graves of ■cabbage plants I’ll rusticate my spade. With reverent and prayerful hand each can of paint- I’ll seal, • And turp the tint from every brush —white, grey or cochineal. If wint or comes, I’ll walk, at evening, thought fully, wherever I shall please, Mosquito shall not vantage nor pollen make me sneeze. My daily bath, if winter comes, will not be lined with stones; Nor shall its arctic temperature strike terror to my bones. If winter comes the sky will take mv place behind the hose; There’ll be no bugs .for me to spray till they are comatose. If Winter comes—oh, books, that keep your orderly array! Oh. closed desk and rusted pen! Oh! beckoning display Of ivoried keys! You shall not keep your silence sacrosanct! I'll not then valet verdant lawn, nor yet purse blooming plant! DORIS F. A. SAYILLE. THE CARRIER. Have you a message, 0 stream, for me As you flow so murkily to the sea? “I tear out tho heart of the mystic hills, And grind it, small in my liquid mills; I roll the pebbles and crush the stone To make a bed of the gravel strown. To build the dwellings of future men Of a race unknown and beyond our ken; That fhe life and the love of a future earth May have scope and purpose to bring to birth.’ What is your message, 0 stream, for me As v.e flow so wondrously to the sea? “I bear the seeds of the dying trees Scattered broadcast upon the breeze; And the myriad lives my streams sustain, 1 bear to. the sea to bo born again! Sunlight, and moonlight and starlight mine To mix with my flood till the doom of Time; I carry the ore from the fountain head For cities unbuilt on my silted bed. There is not a. bird that dips its .wings But leaves me the germ of immortal tilings; There is not an insect however frail That does not scatter its living trail; The wind, and the rain, and the sun and I Combined ensliapetk man’s destiny: There is. not a blossom upon my breast Or the broken thread of a spider’s test, Or the down of a thistle that breaks in twain, That I do not bear to the mighty main: There is not a rock that I cannot grind Under the,sway of the Master Mind, Becking new life, the eternal quest, Obeying for ever the Great Behest!” But what is your message, 0 stream, for me, As ye flow so mystically to the sea?

“I gather the dreams of the wild and .free, ' I sow the seeds of The great To Be: I. bring down trouble and pain: my breath Bliall give you Life and ensure you Death. All sorrow and grief and futile tears Are gifts untold that my bosom bears; And those who love me shall find me fain To bring them to Life and Love again. When the clouds disperse and the rain shall cease, And the gods—and their gods—shall accord us peace; When the flesh is dust, and the iron will 1 Of Man in his manhood is lying still, And the spirit; is free from the flesh’s dross, And ye reap in gain what ye bore in loss. * I am the Carrier, stern and grim, And the souls that. I bear must be judged bv Him. I A.M.Y. ! i