From the Poets

Southland Times, Issue 20538, 14 July 1928, Page 10 (Supplement)

From the Poets

THE MILKMAID’S SONG. Old Chum she is a saucy cow and she should take first prize; She jumped so high one summer’s night she jumped into the skies! Over the moon and farther still, she chewed the stars and then When she had had enough of that she just jumped back again. She is the neatest cow alive—a wonder for her age I churn her milk to butter pats as big as a green-gage. Oh! milk and cream and syllabubs it isn’t every day That you can milk a crumpled cow who chewed the Milky Way. —Marg; Sackville. —Sent in by Cousin James Botting. SONG OF THE UNGIRT RUNNERS. We swing ungirded hips, And lightened are our eyes, The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize. We know not whom we trust Nor whither would we fare. But we run because we must Through the great w'ide air. The waters of the seas Are troubled as by storm. The tempest strips the trees And does not leave them warm. Does the tearing tempest pause? Do the tree-tops ask it why? ‘ So we run without a cause ’Neath the big bare sky. The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize. But the storm the water whips And the wave howls to the skies. The winds arise and strike it And scatter it like land And we run because we like it Through the broad bright land. —Charles H. Sorley. A GARDEN IN LONDON. Twisted ivy root, Green lily shoot, Birds’ morning song — Ah, how came you here among Roof and chimney stack, windblown? Your country dream of loveliness, And your grass with daisies sown, In this busy noisy town, Stars at night look down and bless. Far from noise you lie, And passers-by Turn back awhile, Muse upon you with a smile. Tread in thought your paths along, Stand beneath your boughs, apart, And to-day to them belong All the fragrance and the song That you carry in your heart. —Maud A. Batchelor.