VAGRANT VERSE
CREDO. (Written for the Southland Have I no gold ? Has joy been lost to me ? Are gardens of the Spring a place of weeds? Have words no magic, sound no wriardy, Colour no rapture, and the soul no needs? The universe before me waits m vain, Its mysteries, its voices, leave me cold; Even the sea, striving in endless pain, Wastes at my hand, an epic still untold. The gods sleep deeply in their cosmic dens, Buried in paper, book theologies; They dare not raise their heads to stop the pens That make them slaves to men’s infirmities. I am a beggar in the street of years, And you who robbed me, are you still to blame? Despots are those too busy to know tears, Too wise in their own day to suffer shame. I know the earth, a place where I must aUrva, I watah its rabble dad in purple fine; Howling the prophets down, thmr swords to carve The floah aaundcr of the muses nine. e —Southerner.
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Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 19293, 11 July 1924, Page 4
Word Count
171VAGRANT VERSE Southland Times, Issue 19293, 11 July 1924, Page 4
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