OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 22 June 1935, Page 21 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

ORIGINAL VERSE. The following verses on Autumn were composed by little patients in the Tabor Ward at the New Plymouth Public Hospital:— AUTUMN. (By Violet Young.) When the leaves are brown and gold, Autumn has waved her magic hand, And the tall green trees of old, Look like those in fairy land. The leaves of gold, amber and red, Soon fall to make a fairy bed, And little fairies , in dresses gay, Creep out at night and dance and play. AUTUMN. (By Alison Quickfall.) In autumn the pretty leaves fall down Like fairy coaches of golden brown. Some of them, yellow, brown and red, Lie on the ground just where I tread. The fairies like yellow best of all' To make their dresses for the ball. The crimson leaves, what they are used for Is to decorate the fairy floor. A WINDY NIGHT. (Sent by Isabella Burkhart.) What are you saying, O wild rough . wind! As you wail the long night through? Are you looking, perhaps, for a little boy ’ To waken and play with you? You rattle my windows, and creak the door, And the big trees moan with fright. I’d rather stay here in my cosy bed - Than ride with you, Wind, to-night! THE TRACTION ENGINE. (Sent by Desmond Hurlejp I met an engine on the road, .All hot and heavy-hearted, And this is what he said to me As up the hill he started:— “I think I can, I think I can— At any rate I’ll try it.” He reached the-top, and looking back To where I stood and doubted, ' He started on the downward track, And this is what he shouted:— “I said I could, I said I could— My friend, you might have known it.” I’D LIKE. (Sent by Noeline Flower.) I’d like to be a pirate And to sail the ocean waves, A skull and crossbones at my mast, A crew of fearless braves. With plank and swords and shining knives As bold as bold can be, I’d love to be a pirate— But I’m frightened of the sea? PUSSY. (Sent by Howard, Haylock.) I know a little Jussy. Her coat is silver grey; She lives down in the meadow, Not very far away; And though she is a pussy, She’ll never be a cat, For she’s a pussy willow; Now what d’you think of that! TO A LILY. (Sent by/ Mavis Samson.) Down, beyond the garden fence, Down beyond the wall, In a quiet secluded spot Grows a lily tall. Bells of pearly whiteness, Nodding to the breeze, Telling all their secrets To the swaying trees. Flowers of heavenly fragrance, Beauty unsurpassed, Perhaps a fairy finger Touched them as she passed. I KNOW. (Sent by Thelma Hatcher.) I know 1 It’s so— That Brownies butter Every butter Cup But who Do you Think it could be That pumps the pumpkins Up? POOR BUNNY. (Sent by Napier and Clifton Willison.) Poor Bunny Bobtail had a fright When through the woods one day.; A pussy cat came creeping by, f And carried him away. But Dick and Mick soon rescued him, And took him back, you see; Just think how pleased his mummy was— She hugged her son in glee. WASHING DAY. (Sent by Mary Ross.) Oh dear! how much there is to do When you’ve a family like mine! My dollies number twenty-two/ And once I counted twenty-nine! And some are big and some are small, And some are broken ones, ’tis true; But well I love them one and all, The old as dearly as the new! BUBBLES. (Sent by Ernest Winter.) I blow each bubble full of joy, And as they sail away They carry smiles and sunshine To children at their play. I wonder do the bubbles tell, Or do. they just forget, Who brings-the smiles and sunshine, And the breath ,of mignonette. WINTER, , . (Sent by Deirdre Cleland.) Little snowflakes tumble down, Falling gently, cold and light, Covering the world around With a’ blanket soft arid white. Soon; the show, will melt way, Then to fill our • hearts with cheer, Like a lovely carpet spread, Golden aconites appear! MY PUSSY. (Sent by Ernest Winter.) I’m not like other little boys, I haven’t any books or toys, But I don’t care a jot for that I’ve got my darling Kitty Cat. She plays whatever game I wish, She’ll be-an ogre or a fish, And when I stroke her silky coat She pur-r-rs with joy all down her throat. THE ANTELOPE. (Sent by Alton and Malcolm Kemp.) The antelope’s a bounder— His fastness is astounding; He really sets a frightful pace And dashes round from place to place By bounding, bounding, bounding. When cousin deer attempts reproof, He merely shakes a wicked hoof, And hops about from crag to crag, Giving his tail a wicked wag, So, they conclude, there’s little hope Of saving the bad antelope.