From the Poets

Southland Times, Issue 20771, 11 May 1929, Page 23

From the Poets

A ROSE AT LAST. It was only a rose tree slender, On a dingy windowsill In the heart of a busy city With its mingled good and ill. And the angels must have seen it Unwilling to let it die For it thrived and bore a rosebud Under that darksome sky. A white face watched it daily, With joy in its childish eyes As she played alone in the garret Under the city’s skies. It brightened the dingy window Each night as she crept to bed Though hungry, and loveless, and lonely It will soon be a rose, she said. There at the window one morning, The bud was a rose so fair, But the garret was still and silent There was no little white face there She was smiling in happy slumber Her pain and loneliness past For the angels who loved her were saying That the bud was a rose at last. —Author Unknown. —Sent in by Cousin Molly Emmett, SILVER LAUGHTER. I have missed the cadence Of a lovely song; I shall look among the flowers Where such beauty doth belong. I have left a gold drcam So very dear to me; I shall look among the flowers For its lovely imagery. Listen! O, the loveliness, The dream and song are here—- . Silver laughter among flowers In a garden ringing clear. —Dorothy Whipple Fry. OUR OLD BROWN HEN. Our big brown hen has got some chicks, They’re fluffy as can be. They look like yellow balls of wool, And are so sweet to see. I And every day at half-past twelve We take them down their corn— And how they run to meet us When they see us cross the lawn. The old brown hen just clucks away, A-strutting to and fro. And puffing all her feathers out, And looks so proud, you know. —Marjorie Slade. —Sent in by Cousin Noreen Dicks.