Among the Poets

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16668, 25 February 1922, Page 4

Among the Poets

A Bouquet of Verses

THE FLUTE. "Stop! What are you doing?” " Playing on an old flute." " That’s Heine s flute. You mustn’t touch Why not, if I can make it apuml?" “ I don’t know why not. but yoh mustn’t." "I don’t, believe I can—much. It's full of dust. Still, listen: The rose moon whitens the lifting leaves, Heigh-ho! the nightingale sings! Through boughs and branches the moon thread weaves. Ancient as time are these midnight things. The nightingale's notes over-bubble the night. Heigh-ho! yet the night is so big! Ho stands on tis nest in a wafer of light And tho nert was once a philosopher’s wig. Moon sharp needles and dew on ibe grass Heigh-ho! it, flickers, the breeze! Kings, philosophers, periwigs pass. Nightingales hatch their eggs in the Wigs and nigs and kings and courts. Heigh-ho! rain on the flower! Tho Old moon thinks her white, bright thoughts. And trundles away before the shower. " Well, you got it to play." "Yes. r little. And it has lovely silver mountings." —-Amy L-owell. pan is not dead. Pan is not dead. Pan never dies! He merely hides from prying eyes! Hut yesterday I saw him pass Among the trees which dot the grass I D** eye ! 8 1 £aith and ‘rusting still, I followed him far o’er the hill And hoard,'by lucky, lucky ehaice Pan pipe the butterflies a dance! The same old merry, lustv trill Anl and , now d eep, now shrill, And 3ou may find him any day Upon the fields not far away! Yet be. not sceptical or cold Else Pan you never shall behold. Pan hides from doubting, modern eyes. But is not dead. Pan never dies! THINGS THAT COUNT. Not. what we have, bnt what we use Tvot what we see, but what we choose—inese are the things that mar or bless The stun of human happiness. The things near by. not things afar, Not what we seem, but what we are These are the things that make or break That give the heart its joy or ache. Not what seems fair, but what is true bo. what we dream, but good we do— ' Trike Jar.U V t , hat sWne gems, irike stars in fortune's diadems. Not as we talk, but as we give, Not as we pray, but as we live—eUFuow th a fh ,U S that for peace Both now, and after time shall oease. SPRINGTIME IN COOKHAM DEAN. | How marvellous and fair a thing I U ls „„ to st : e , an English spring, Tb»=, j” not *f now ho bas not seen Ibe cherry trees at Cookham Dean. ho has not seen the blossom 1U Inke snowdrifts gainst a cloudless sky And found the beauty of the way Through woodlands odorous with may; It is a rare, a holy 6ight ,p° * e ® h . iUs wi *h blossoms white, To feel the air about one flowing With the silent rapture growing In the hidden heart of things That yearn, the flower, put forth '•■ings And show their splendours one it one Beneath the all-rejoicing sun. —Cecil Roberts. THE TALE OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. " Away, away!" cried the stout Sir John, While the blossoms are on the trees; ; For the summer is short, and the tiom speeds on , As we sail for the Northern Seas. A stout good ship is the Erebus. | As ever unfurled a sail, j And the Terror will match with as bravj a | As ever outrode a gale." i They sped them away, beyond cane and j hay, j Where even the tear-drops freeze; But no way was found, by strait or sound i To sail through the Northern Seas: j They sped them away, beyond cape and i bay. And they sought, but they sought in , | vain ; > For no way was found through the ice around . j To return to their homes again. i A heavy sleep that was dark and deep, Came over their weary eyes; And they dreamed strange dreams of the hills and streams. And the blue of their native skies, i The Christmas chimes, of the good old times. Wore heard in each dying ear. ; And the darling feet, and the voices sweet Of their wives and children dear! J Bnt it faded away—away—awav ! > Like a sound on a distant shorel A mb d . e v eper and dM » Br ‘he sleep, Till they slept to wake no more! M! C RATION. Out of the north a summons; Out of the north a cry; > Above the curving shore line The wide winged geese go by. Small rills that sing of rapture Are seeping from the mould; The slim withes of marsh wiliows Are brightening into gold. The quickened sap mounts upward Tn every woodland bole: In vale and hillcreet meadows The sd renews its soul. Burst are the icy fetters That held in bondage strongAll the four winds are shouting ‘ Their messages of song. Earth stirs in rapt elation, Old yet, forever new. And in the great migration I am a migrant too! Clinton Scollard. THE AVIATORS- AFTER. WARD. Half gods we made them Fashioning them for the fight; Balanced and weighed them. Tempered and stayed them. Armed and arrayed them. Finished and fledged them for flight. To them was given Power and might above men. Clean winged and shriven, To. they have striven Up to high heaven Dealing death, sudden and keen. High clouds a-hover, Far gleaming stare and the sun Knew them as lover And fellow rover. Their work is finished and dono. Half gods wo made them. Giving tlmm might above me*., w in god and arraved then . Can wo degrade them Have we bet raved them. Or Ui pg lhe in uu;Dl-WiLvd, again?