Page 22 Advertisements Column 1

Southland Times, Issue 20014, 30 October 1926, Page 22

ORIGINAL VERSL Cousin Daphne Godward has written a very pretty poem round a beautiful thought, and has produced something that for natural, simple treatment and charming effect she has never equalled. This is the sort of creative work I would have all my Cousins attempt—it is the touch of originality which I look for in all of you. THE DEATH OF SPRING. I have lived my life, sang the Maid of Spring, I have loved New Zealand well; But the ’wakening flowers on the rata bowers Are ringing my funeral knell. And the winds of the garden heard her song, And bade farewell with a sigh; As she sadly pressed the earth to her breast And whispered a last “good-bye.” They covered her grave with the withered gold Of the flowers she had left behind, And the birds all day sang a sweet, sad hr* To the answering dirge of the wind. Ah, the days of Summer are golden days, And her face is fair, they sighed; But there is no mirth in the sad old earth Since the Maid of Spring-time died. For her’s was the first wild joy of youth, And the rapture of new-born flowers; Blue skies above, and the birds in love, A-swing on the emerald bowers. But sleeping now, is the Maid of Spring, In her lonely grave in the hills; And fondly we pray she will wake some day To bring back her daffodils. And Summer, hearing the song they sang, Her first sweet rose-bud gave, Brushed the crimson tips, with her dewy lips, And laid it on Spring-time’s grave. —4 marks to Cousin Daphne Godward (17), “Rockhaven,” 397 Elies Road, North Invercargill. These are the last two poems of Cousin Annie Playfair, aged fifteen. .And “Patricia” is a fitting In Memoriam to the age that she will be no more, an encouraging prelude to the triumphant years that are to come. In every respect it is an improvement on any work of verse-making she has ever done for me—the velvet smoothness its rhythm, the tranquil happiness of its steady pulse, the exquisite imagery of it, all make it a poem setting a new, and an infinitely higher, standard for her work. “I miss you so” is a less promising piece of work, certainly, although the verse pattern is quaintly attractive. But here her imagery is more childish and less arresting. PATRICIA. Are you a moth, Patricia, or are you a mountain rose: Are you a fairy dancing round while the daisy petals close? Are you a happy skylark, singing the hours away, Or are you a mother-of-pearl, my love, from beneath the laughing bay? Are you a cloud of silver, or are you a golden star? Are you a flower on the gentle wind from Wonderland afar? Are you the voice of the Spring, dear, when Winter’s nights are dark, Or are you a breath of sunrise, with the songs of the soaring lark. Are you a shell of gold, love, laughing upon the sand? Are you a silver wavelet, soft as a fairy’s hand ? Are you a lovely mermaid, sweeter than all the rest ? Are you a happy sea-bird, flying homeward to your nest? Where are you now, Patricia? Tell me and I will come; Let me hear, little drummer-girl, the beat of your precious drum. .As soon as I find the road, dear, I’ll be coming home to you, And then the roses will bloom again, and the path will be soft with dew. —4 marks to Cousin Annie Playfair (15), “Bonniefield,” Gummies Bush. I MISS YOU SO. I miss you so, when fairy elves are bringing The breath of Spring, Though sweet it is, I know. With you the chimes of wonder would be ringing. I miss you so. As fairy kisses, pure as falling snow, The loving dew upon the rose is clinging; And listening there, I hear it sighing low. I watch the butterflies, so gaily winging, And, yearningly, I see them pass and go. * Oh, when I hear the bell-bird singing, singing, I miss you so. —4 marks to Cousin Annie Playfair (15), Gummies Bush. There is always something about Cousin Elsie Amos’ poems which lift them out of thg ordinary way, and I am glad that her rhythm and rhyming are developing so favourably to cope with her original ideas. BEAUTIFUL SPRING EVENING. I sat by the stream one evening, And gazed o’er the meadows fair, And I saw the wee lambs frisking Around their mother there. I heard the sweetest music, As though it were a dream, Just like silver fairy bells, The rippling of the stream. The trees all looked so lovely, With clematis hanging there, And everything was beautiful, The evening was so fair. The kowhai flowers were falling, And floating in the stream, The birds their goodnight calling, - I heard as in a dream. As I stood by the stream at sunset, And the clouds were tipped with I was loath to wander homeward, \ Though the air was getting cold. —3 marks to Cousin Elsie Amos (13), Mabel Bush. This new poem of Cousin Elsie Amos would be much more worthy of her were its metre less erratic, the composition of its lines less inconsistent. The ideas in it are good; but each verse is composed of lines of an entirely different length, altering the rhythm with disastrous effect. • TO THE DAFFODILS. So stately and beautiful, You stand by the walk; You tell me it’s Spring, Though I know you can’t talk. I’m sorry that you cannot stay, Your beauty’s fast fading away. Once your head was a blaze of gold, Spring-time to us was the story you told. With heads held up bravely, You were standing out there; Of sunshine and storms, You had your full share, But now all your splendour is fading away, Oh, beautiful daffod ib, I wish you would stay. —2 marks to Cousin Elsie Amos (13), Mabel Bush. There are some very good parts in Cousin Emily Horrell’s “Beauty of the Morning” although she has not yet quite caught the full meaning of rhythm, with the consequence that in places her lines were not by any means full. She has plenty of good ideas, and plenty of effective pictures in her mind. What she wants now is just practice in putting them into verse. And it is only practice that can help her to develop the powers which I am confident she possesses. THE BEAUTY OF THE MORNING. When I awake each morning bright It fills my heart with great delight To see the birds and beasts so gay, Welcoming in the new-born day. The sun above the horizon bright Is showing all its morning light. The birds amid the rustling trees Send forth their sweet notes in the breeze To wandering beggars on the lane, Who with the sun rise once again, And go their lonely wandering way To find another place to stay. The sweet flowers, also, with the sun Awake with lovely joy among The grasses where the lambkins stray About until the end of day. -s Oh! the beauties of the morn As the sun weds with the dawn. —2 marks to Cousin Emily Horrell (12), “Fairview,’* Mandevilk / Cousin Evelyn Hawkes has done very little verae-making as yet; but the little she has done quite convinces me that it will be very worth her while to keep at it. She has not yet fathomed all the difficulties of metre and rhythm, which will only be revealed to > — through practice, and the constant reading of the great poets. SPRING IN THE BUSH. In the Spring, The foresf will ring. With the bird’s rejoicing song They will echo loud and long. In the Spring, The trees do sigh, As if making an ever lasting tie With some immortal thin® In the Spring, The wind will whistle Through the outside growth of thistle, While the forest belb go ting a ling-a-ling. —1 mark to Cousin Evelyn Hawkes (12), Otahu.