Verse--Old & New

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume LIX, Issue 17947, 26 November 1932, Page 14

Verse--Old & New

Severed Lives. Ghost of a love, she laid her hand on my shoulder. There, without speaking, we stood and

looked at a star; And from two hearts remote, in a

world grown colder, Back we looked upon memories, burn ing afar.

Each knew well, how each in the silence was seeking Faded warmth from the light of a star long set: We knew, we know what neither to other was speaking; Tongue-tied, estranged, still severed—we could not forget ! —Laurence Housnian, in London Observer. Memories. Men built a woodland cottage long ago— A tiny home, hull lost among the trees: They dug a garden plot where row on row Of scarlet poppies nodded in tho breeze; Young robins twittered in the bushes 1,0 w And spring brought swallows there from o’er the seas.

The years slipt by—that little house fell down: Men came again: they made a pavement gray. Where poppies grew, dark buildings cast a frown. The trees were felled, the robins flew away:

One spring the swallows came, they saw a town, And o’er the hills they flew in wild dismay.

In that same city street, when night winds blow, An old man dreams, nor heeds the passing throng: lie sees tall pine boughs swinging to and fro ’Neath mist-blue skies; he hears the robin’s song, While still his wo.odland home of long ago Lives in old, faded albums, treasured long. —Joan Warry, in London Observer.

Sir Walter Scott.

Sec the glittering cavalcade sweeping down the glen, All his lords and armored knights, squires and serving-men! With those hundred years forgot, take the living hour; Hide the moss with Deloraine; feast in Branksomc Tower; Back the sword of Marmion; stand with Koderic Dliu; 1 Storm the walls of Carlisle at the spearhead of Buccleuch; From the .bridal fast, and far Hide and laugh with Jjoehinvar; Forward o’er the Carter Bar (Speed the Bonnets Blue! The picture dims; the light and laughter fade. A weary writer at his table bowed Toils at the task upon his manhood laid— So much to do, so little time allowed! From Fancy’s fields . lie called his knights once more And the proud chart of chivalry unrolled; Chose the bright threads from his romantic store And wove again his magic doth-of-gold; And in Iris gallant heart hope never died That Fate would spare him to discharge his debt. Men may forget " his pageantry of pride, But. his was not the courage men forget. —W.11.0., in Punch. Norton’s Egg Preservative, Liquid or Paste.*

Sleeping Out Peace, there is peace in this awaking. Slowly, silently, the warm sun Enters my being. Waves are breaking Unseen as time, one after one Endlessly breaking. A seaguil crying Voices eternity. There stirs A wind among the grass, and, sighing, Carries my spirit to hers. —Patrick MacDonagh, in London Observer. This, Our Sister. Ship with brass handles, crowned with flowers, That rides tho chancel high, The candle light, the incense cloud, The storms of music pass thee by: Above the arches and the voice, Tho chanting and the mourners pale, w O mute and folded voyager, What ocean dost thou sail? -—L. A. G. Strong, in London Observer. The Kiss. We do not love; this kiss of ours Is but a careless, chance embrace —■ As though two individual flowers, Near neighbors in an upland place, Should by some infant tempest find Their blossoms caught and intertwined; Which being overpast, they spring Unscathed apart, nor longer cling. So, in a little gusty Now, Without a Future or a Past, Without a memory or a vow, We yield to joy, nor bid it last. This is not loving—love must be Athirst lor continuity: But many a graver, truer kiss Were less delightful, dear, than this. —Jan Struther, in London Spectator. Summer. Queen Summer's feet come tripping o’er the grass, And roses swing their fragrant goblets wide: The Chrisjmas lilies stand like silver rods, And everywhere the balmy breezes blow. The weary reign of winter is at end, And gold of orange wakes our hearts to joy; Then pause a little! Cast aside all cares, All fear of future loss and grief. Drawin The lanquid sweetness of the happy; time, And rise refreshed, created thus anew!. —Bessie Heighton, Christchurch. Tho Island Bull. Within the fourfoot span of his great horns, Beneath his brow’s crisp curls of ruddy hair, With a smoulder of blue fire his brown eyes stare At the unmastered snowy herds that sweep Over the windy pastures of the deep: And as he sees the breakers ranging ' free Over the shining meadows of the sea, To even fiercer flame those unquelled fires Quicken with old far-wandcring desires. —Wilfrid Gibson, in London Observer.