Among the Poets A Bouquet of Verses

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16911, 9 December 1922, Page 4

Among the Poets A Bouquet of Verses

THE DESERT. When the Master of all creation Had finished the work of His lmudThe earth and the world of people, The sea, tlie sky and the land — luethinks that His heart grew heavy And He said, with a sigh and a nod. “ So much for the world of people, And nothing at all. for God.” Then He chose from His vast creation A desolate waste of sand. Sprinkled it over with sagebrush And fashioned tho Desert Land. Hr,4savo it the glow of the sunset, Tho glare of the noonday licat, The lure of distant horizons Where earth and heaven meet. And when His labour was ended Hr: said with a smile divine: ‘ The beauties of earth are my children's— The Desert alone is mins.” Helen Frazee-.Bower in the “ Nc-v; York Herald.” WAYFARING MEED. Oh. the little Roman donkeys go trudging up and down. Hither, yon, and crosswise, a-through, the stately town. Their merry bells a-tinkle. their tassels red a-toss — Eli, were Home to lose her* donkeys, ’twould be a fearsome loss! Full fortunate the family that owns a donkey stout! Few loads are ever high enough for him to fuss about ; Melons to overflowing may till the wobbly cart— Uj> mounts that numerous family, and gaily off they start! Sometimes suave Signor Donkey receives a sounding thwack— What use? It lands unheeded upon his rusty back! He knows he’s going fast enough—his sage ears signal “ No!’” His driver sighs—and onward, at the same old pace* they go! With philosophic calm he plods along day after day. For he has a sense of humour, and he lias a bunch of hay Tied to one thill convenient, for him to munch at will—- ‘‘ An’ thees,” explains Pierto, * maklieem not min’ da hill!” MORAL. All meet for faithful service keep not till close of day, Hut cheer the patient toiler while on the toilsome way ! Minnfe Leona Upton in the “ Christian Science Monitor.”

APRIL.

There is a peasant in my blood and bones What wants to plunge ibis hands deep down in soil, To walk at night across the fields alone And smell the cool earth odours after toil. My hands feel empty that would greet the spring, I open them and close them in the But they are white, they hold not anything, They are not aching when the day is done. Now robins break the silence from a limb, f And I would lead grey horses down a Via lie And. singing, plough, until the day grew 7 dim. Brown waves of earth and golden dreams of grain. I do not want the barter and the trade ' But only springtime up around my knees, Blue starry flowers and cattle in txe. shade Of willows, songs and sudden wings in trees; All these and labour for the winter store. At last the free barefooted hours of morn,At night the songs of friends outside the door And whispers from the haunted aisles of corn. O wages won from towns, O factories, O streets, the lure of jour loud tumult stills ! When April comes my father lives in me And I would be with April on the hills ! When April comes my father lives in And floods run down the old forgotten trails, As when my fathers logged a Scottish tree Or tended flocks upon a hill in Wales. —Stirling Bowen in “ The Liberator.” SUNSET PROMISE. Sunk is the golden orb beneath the. sea, Nought but its radiance now remains to show The world, whose very life it seemed to be, What w'ere the beauties of its wondrous glow. Those sunset rays will soon themselves fade out, * 4 And then unnoticed, silently, will fall, As though for evermore the light to rout, A panoply of darkness over all. then cause for'fear that earth is shorn Of joy, when dies the sun’s last flickering ray ? No! for upon the wings of night is borne The radiant promise of anotherr day —Arthur S. Hollis, in the “ Christian Science Monitor.”