Among the Poets A Bouquet of Verses

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16456, 18 June 1921, Page 4

Among the Poets A Bouquet of Verses

MISSED. Six* came into our lives one day "When wo were worn with waiting; All weary with our loneliness. And dulled with much berating. Her dainty ways and cooing voice Soon sect our cares a winging; Her presence made us all rejoice, Ollt home wa3 filled with singing. But eh! that day of bitterness, She went to join her sister: Our hearts were numbed with deep distress. All! Heaven! how-we missed her! a • . We a.!?o missed Two tablecloths, Six goblets, One pair pumps. Grandma's garnet brooch, and Five pounds. STAIRWAYS. Why do I think of stairways With a rash of hurt surprise?—• Wistful as forgotten love In remembered eyes. Arid fitful aa the flutter Of liltrie draughts of air That linger on a stairway As though they love it there. New and shining stairways. Stairways worn and old— Where rooms are prison places And corridors are cold— You intrigue with fancy, You challenge with a lore Elusive as 8. moon's light Shadowing a floor. You speak to roe not only YTth the lure of storied artFor wonder o* old footsteps Lies lightly on my hoar!; * More than the. reminiscence Of yesterday’s renown— Laughter that might have floated up, Echoes that should drift down! —Hazel Hall. LINES TO AN OBJECT.

When the setting sun. is shining On the sea—(l’ve not the least idea when IT)at may be)— That is just the very time I Think of thee! As the river runs unerring To the sea—(How it finds its way is very Strange to me!>So my feet a.'-e always running After thee! As the magnet turns forever to tho Pole—(That, it does I am not certain On the whole!) So my soul is always turning l To thy soul! If the raarmet and the river And the soa We should eee. Oh my goodness, what a bicesing That would be! MAY JONES TAXES THE AIR May Jones, of Filbert Street, is walking into town. Dead Czar Nicholas, wailing for your crown! Live Bill Hohenzoliem chopping cedars : Turn heads, bow heads! Divers or the sea, Rise from your poarl beds and twist your hacks with me! Bent backs, flayed backs, backs o: black and May Jones, of Filbert -Street, is walking into town! Silk worms crawling for her dimpled knees! China winds that twist the berry trees! Lilies-of-the-vallev—htdine* from the boefl— Saving up a, drop of gold to kiss her silver May Jones, of Filbert Street-, is questing into town! Eve in the garden talking to the snake. Spare a bite of apple core, for your daughter’s sake! Cfflsar. 6pare tho men of Gaul lest time’s heart should break! David King, be heedful what dark-haired wive* you take, Y hat proud sons and girls you get to p3£s your beauty down! May Jones, of Filbert Street, is walking into town! Proud queens, old queens, pale and dead and there? ** VV * ifcingr to matcll beauty The night is nailed aloft with gold—the wind is on her hair. And love is searching through her eyes; if time has love to spare Bring love! Show love! Raise it like a May Jones, of Filbert Street, is walkin'* into town! ° Nations are marching. Cities vet unseen Hoar on the pavemonts where tier feet hare been : Xew world. I -Wise worlds i Worlds all gold ana green! This is your birth right/ Rain tout splendors down ! May Jones, of Filbert Street, is wall ing into town. —Roy Helton, OF LITTLE THINGS, A many things there be that lore: many little things there be: The fern-rimmed forest fountain pu’-e The dancing, frail eyhemerse; The lunar moth’s first stirring whan ll bursts from out its rough cocoon; The wood thrush fluttering from the **!eu In early watches of the moon: ° Tl %?y mc J s ros f a * ’ :t bursts its sheath; The flame breast of the criole • Words that, like subtle attar, breathe A something fragrant from the soul; Tho tender touch of loving hands 1 ; The arm that clasps, the lir» that clings: Ah, is it strange my heart expands At tho eweet lure of little things! * —Glinto Scollard. BROOKLYN BRIDGE. Clanking tramp, poring apica: creaking barge, wealing ice, Derricks, dredges, railroad floats. Dreadnoughts, barks and ferryboats, Come and go on busy tides ’tween your graying gronito sides. Spruce and pine from oangor, Maine; cocoanuts from Port o’ Spain, Harbour tug and brigantine, yacht and submarine, Find a haven through tho night in the •hadow of your might. Sails for you in every breeze; cargoes on Satins, silks and cotton rags, Boxes, bales and gunny bags— Rushing through the restless foam, racing to your welcome Lome. London Bridge is olden, the span o’er Cha Firth is long; The Bridge of Sighs is story, but vou are true and strong. —Porter Bourke. ADVENTURE. Adventure celling from the yellow Lilia In many voices through the windy ttene Of bending cypresses that slash the moon And with a high expectancy that thrille * The multitudinous desire of rills That run they know not where through rippled grass, ° Bring perilous old things that came to TVhen_worlds were younger; and my spirit "With such an urgency that I must go On that will make my hunger Bor I am haunted by explorers old. Vasco da Gama, sailing through tho enow Arid Coronado in the wilderness Who eought for Seven Cities built of jrold. -—Herbert S. Gorman.