VAGRANT VERSE
VERS LIBRE. (Written for the Southland Times.) Out of the blue sky, magic; The starry heavens, mystery; From the grass-cloaked earth, music; The foot-crusted streets, drama; The restless sea, grandeur; So I have heard the call, Nothing to rhyme, no story to tod. No packing of words, Form gone by the board A speaking, that is all, Like a child’s prattle Aiming at nothing, But still rhythmic with the hidden urg| That rocks the cosmos. So I confess I am a vera librist. Strange attitude For a lover of Keats, the Grecian; An admirer of George Moore, the sty One who revels in Shelley, the smgej Glories in Ernest Dowson, The sculptor of lines. But when all is said I often find it difficult To follow the rhapsodies Of the good grey poet, W alt Whitmaa, And the chants of Carl Sandburg. —Southerner; Invercargill, November 9.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST19241110.2.20
Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 19396, 10 November 1924, Page 4
Word Count
148VAGRANT VERSE Southland Times, Issue 19396, 10 November 1924, Page 4
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