OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 9 November 1935, Page 18 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

A DAY ON THE FARM. (Sent by Isabella Burkhart.) I get up very early, To milk my brownie cow, And feed my little puppy, Who greets me with “Bow-wow. I feed the sheep on lucerne, With the little Dolly mare, B.ut the pigs just keep on snoring, They simply do not care! THE SWING IN THE WOOD. (Sent by Eunice McEwen.) Swing, Swing, . Now I’m on the wing! Swing, ! Swing, Like a bird I sing! Swinging high and swinging low, Up to the chestnut bough I go, Back to the oak and to and fro Swing, Swing, Like a bird I sing. -WHISPER SONG. (Sent by Doreen Treweek.) Into the dreamy hushes, When restless winds are furled And notes of the birds are silent, Steal whisper songs of the world.

Croon of the running water Eerie voice of the grass, A stir of the golden rod bed; A drone as the wild bees pass.

Deep in shimmering branches, With leaf buds half uncurled, Soft little airs go singing Whisper-songs of the world. SPRING GOETH ALL IN WHITE. (Sent by Barbara Lawrence.) Spring goeth all in white Crowned with milk-white may; In fleecy flocks of light O’er heaven the white clouds stray: White butterflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and the hoary pear Scatter their snow around. THE SUMMER HOUSE. (Sent by Joan Brock.) / The summer-house is thatched with straw. . , , Here martins build, and our jackdaw His treasure hides beneath the eaves, Well covered by broad ivy leaves. Round doors and windows rose trees climb, And blossom all the summer time, And window-boxes make display Of' mignonette and pansies gay. Inside the summer-house you see A small, round table, chairs for three, Made in the workshop by the boys, A cupboard where we keep our toys We often entertain to tea Our little friends; our crockery Is blue and gold, and on the wall There is a shelf to hold it all. And here I sew with Joan and Bess When dolly needs another dress, And mother in the doorway sits, And tell us stories while she knits. CRYING FOR THE MOON. ■ (Sent by Tinker Bell.) Over the waving grasses, Over the meadow fair, A maiden was running to seek the moon, With the wind in her golden hair. Slowly the moon was rising, Yellow, and round, and bright, And faster the maiden hurried along Over the moonbeams white. She resfthed the lonely mountain, But the moon was high in the sky, And the poor little maiden, weary and sad, Sat down on the grass to cry.

In the Land of Grown-up People, They cry for the moon, I know; I' So they need not smile at the little maid Who lives where the grasses grow. —Evelina Ida San Garde. AT EVENTIDE. (Sent by Edna Riddick.) The sun goes down; the moon comes up, And sheds her silver ray On all the world, where little ones Are weary with their play. And in the soft and silver light, From out behind the 4 clouds The dreamland children, fair and sweet Come out to play in crowds. Oh, lullaby! oh, lullaby! Our baby’s good-night song Is sung, and baby sleeps, and dreams Sweet dreams the whole night long. The dreamland children smile and sing, Around her little cot; And mother watches baby’s smile, And whispers, “Wake her not!” THE BUTTERFLY. (Sent by Nola Gray.) The beetle is a clod, The brown bee but a thief, But the butterfly’s a god ’ s he poises on the leaf. Free of open sky, Free of fern and clover, Free is he to fly The wide world over. » Jewel he, and gem, Bronze or red or blue, Clinging to a stem Ere he launch anew; Flashing like a fire Through a bush green land, Mocking the desire Of the outstretched hand. Slighter than a thought, Subtler than a dream, Chased and still uncaught, Gamboiler and gleam; Pinions ever beating Swift without a sound; Fancy ever fleeting, Beauty never bound.

WHERE LIES THE LAND? (Sent by Alma Winter.) Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. K And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.. On sunny noons upon the deck’s smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o’ei- the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go. On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.