FROM THE POETS

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18552, 26 April 1930, Page 12 (Supplement)

FROM THE POETS

MICHAEL’S SONG. Because I set no snare, But left them flying free, All the birds on the air Belong to me. From the blue-tit on the sloe To the eagle on the height, Uncaged they come and go For my delight. And so the sunward way I soar on eagle’s wings, And in my heart all day The blue-tit sings. —Wilfred Gibson. JOYS. I’m rather fond of medicine, especially if it’s pink, Or else the fizzy-wizzy kind that makes you want to blink; And eucalyptus lozenges are very nice I think. I like it when I’m really ill and have to stay in bed, With mother’s grown-up pillows all frilly round my head; But measles is the funniest, because you get so red. —Rose Fyleman. JOHN O’ DREAMS. When the clocks are striking seven, and the candles in their sticks, In winter time, at any rate, are lighting up their wicks, And little eyes have leaden weights that seem to drag them down, Then John O’ Dreams comes riding in his cart from Slumber Town. When countless pairs of little feet have climbed up miles of stairs, And little folk in nighties have repeated little prayers, The dream cart with its rubber tyres comes softly down the street, And driver John cries, “Dreams to sell! Fresh dreams all sound and sweet!” And when the little people, all up miles and miles of stairs, Hear with their little drowsy ears the dream man cry his wares, They hurry up and cuddle down and button both eyes tight, That each may have a little dream to play with through the night. —Ada Leonora Harris. ONLY FIVE. Only five! Yet she sees the fairies pass Where the stream is clear as glass, Though the ferns and velvet grass Scarcely stir. Through the ferns and violet With the dews of morning wet, Though she’s but a baby yet, Each one stays to speak to her. Only five! Yet so wise in fairy lore. Surely she has wandered o’er Magic’s border, through some door Left ajar. Lingered there a little space (See, the light is on her face) ’Mid the splendours of the place Where the shining aiigels are. —Agnes A. Evans.

LADY MOON. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? x Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me. Are you not tired with roving, and never Resting to sleep? Why look so pale and so sad, as for ever Wishing to weep? Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; You are too bold. I must obey my dear Father above me, And do as I’m told. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me. —Lord Houghton.