From the Poets

Southland Times, Issue 20615, 13 October 1928, Page 22 (Supplement)

From the Poets

MY JEWEL HOUSE. The king—he has a jewel house, And so have I; His house is barred and bolted tight. Mine’s open to the sky. I walk among my jewels fair That stud the meadow grass; Old Brindle, underneath the tree, Lows faintly as I pass. She cannot see the radiant gems That greet my happy eye; She sees just grasses wet with dew, Not gems —I w'onder why. She crops the graos so fresh and sweet Anti never does she dream How diamonds and rubies bright On every green blade gleam. She feeds on pearls and emeralds At early morning’s light, And swallows purple amethysts With every dewy bite. Yet, though they may seem lost to-day, Fresh store to-morrow brings; And so I think my jewel house Is richer far than kings. C. G. R. SEA HOME. The island is a ship’s length and as wide, An ocean-watered plot of rugged rock; Three hardy pine trees flourish in the shock Of singing water leaping at high tide. A sailor lives alone there, calm with pride: He built the little cabin and the dock. Anemones are swaying by the walk, Wild gulls flash joyously on every side. The sailor is as lean as a tall spar, As white as salt his flowing beard and head: His blue eyes seem to lools out very far; A swinging strip of sailcloth is his bed. He gave his youth in service to the sea, That now in age serves him most royally. —Power Dalton. LITTLE DISHES. High on a dusty shelf, Tucked out of sight and memory—• Little dishes With blue and pink flowers. A jolly fat teapot, a round sugar bowl, Plates and tiny cups — All with blue and pink flowers. Baby hands are slender now, and white, And little dishes have become frail china With pale gold bands. But perhaps the delicate tea things Do not know the charm That once belonged to the little dishes— Warm, summer mornings in the sandpile Beneath the locusts; Still, winter dusks when lights were beginning to twinkle, And fragrant cookies filled the little plates; Quaint, rainy hours behind white curtains of the nursery. The slender hands have forgotten these things, And yet—should they remember— Perhaps they would give the fralty of delicate china To have again The gladness of little dishes. —Jean Sanders.