From The Poets
WHERE MOST IS MEANT. Dazzled, how the brown moth flutters (In my fingers prisoned tight) Ere, through opened sash and shutters, Loosed into the night. Surely clutched hut softly holden (Least of struggling ticklish things) Let him go— My hand is golden, Dusty from his wings. —Christopher Morley. THE CONQUEROR. Arrows of anger miss their mark, The wound of wrath soon heals In him who understands his foe And a compassion feels. And should ten unjust men stand there s Whom only vengeance moves, Though clad in steel, let them beware The thaf/s of one who loves. —T. Morris Longstreth.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST19300503.2.105.24.8
Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 21073, 3 May 1930, Page 22
Word Count
103From The Poets Southland Times, Issue 21073, 3 May 1930, Page 22
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