From the Poets
WHAT THE OWL SAYS. I sit all alone on the branch of a And nobody cares the least about me; I wonder whatever the reason can be? I call o’er the tree tops “tu-whit” and “tu-whoo.” And by that, you must know, I mean “How do you do?” But I listen in vain for an answer from you. So now I’ll go hunting for plump little mice. To the tumble-down barn where I’ve been once or twice; A few for my supper would be very nice! —M. G. Rhodes —Sent in by Margaret Coster. ROADSIDE FLOWERS. We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds; Lovers of idle hours, Breakers of ordered bounds. If only the earth will feed us, If only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us, The stragglers left behind. And lo! the Lord of the Garden, He makes His sun to rise, And His rain to fall like pardon On our dusty paradise. —Bliss Carman. —Sent in by Cousin Irene Dwyer.
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Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 20538, 14 July 1928, Page 11 (Supplement)
Word Count
172From the Poets Southland Times, Issue 20538, 14 July 1928, Page 11 (Supplement)
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