Among the Poets

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16928, 30 December 1922, Page 12

Among the Poets

| A Bouquet of Verses [

■isc=* ——- ,r-rttr-z til IN LANDS OFF THERE. In lands off there across the seas The tempi© bells entreat for prayer With silver cadenced harmonies— In lands off there Slow awing the cavavans that daro The yellow sands, bound for the leas V* here golden rivers blot despair. In lands off there. Night long upon the jasmine breeze The tomtom beats while maidens fair With faces veiled, rich mysteries In lands off there —-Thomas J, Murray in tho “ New York Herald.” BEAUTY. I hare seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills, Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tune-s of Spain : I have seen the Lady April bringing the daffodils, Bringing the epi'ingiug grass and tho soft warm April rain. I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea, And seen strange la nek under the arched white saiLs of ships ; But the loveliest tilings of beauty God ever has shown to me Are her voice and her hair and eyes and the dear red curve of her lips —John Masefield in “ Ballads.” THE UPPER CIRCLE. The following is one of the last, if not the last, pieces of verse written by the late Henry Lawnon. It appeared in a recent number of • • Aussie ” : No songs of revolt am I singing, No pean or saga of old; But just the poor pot-boiler* bringing Long beers, whan your boiler is cold. No Queen in appearance oar manners, No great Maid of Orleans is she; Yet high o’er the city her banners Are flying for all men to see. Her rampart is breast-high and granite— Bv floor that is leaden and grey— But nothing in trousers dare man it On what she considers Her Day. She has nothing to rex her enr ** worrit ” Her soul while she washes and scrubs; A shed that might serve as a turret Is fixed up with copper and tubs. She is doing *is duds, If yon axes; She works on a level with cats; No rent does she pay, and no taxes, Yet she dwells in a mansion of flats. (Not down in the basement or cellar, Nor anywhere else “ on the sly ” Just glance at her arms ere you tell her That that’s what you mean to imply) Bay, harbour, and sea are before her; The grandest of harbours and seas, The bluest of blue skies is o’er her, But she never glances at these. The post office clook strikes “elerring,” And grimly her features are set; She’s been at it sinoe eright, and, Good Heavin ! She ain’t got the “ eullids M out yet. And. if you should ask what all this is, I’ll take you and show you, the proof— It is merely the caretaker’s missus, On washing day, up on the roof.

HER EYES.

It wa*« so dark that ghosts peered boldlv through the lattice. So dark the wind nut on its nameless robe and jewels. The knees of gnarled old orchards knocked and knocked together. And all the frighted flowers crouched and trembled wildly, Gnomes wandered from their cares and did not know they wandered. Tlie ancient frogs upon their lilc saddles riding Boasted—mumlding. grumbling to the coward frogling*. “ So dark ! So Dark !”

It was so dark that goblins walked the street with anybody. So dark that witches humr their broomsticks on the doorknobs. Grave judges lost their way and roamed abroad with robbers. Mouse trails were blotted and the oats’ eves scared each other. While irtnele beasts crawled round in circles, tame as children. A lover smiled into the gloom and fondlv worshiped : Night was not niglit; it was her deep, enchanting eyes, “ So dark ! So dark !” —Jeannie Harris Oliver, in the ‘ New York Herald.”

WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

What does it matter if the road be rough ? Square out your shoulders, and make your heart tough. Even though your spirit says: “It ie enough,” It matters not. What does it matter If the sun won’t shine. Just where you -want it to, do not repine, Watch how the tendrils of love will entwine Where you are not? Why should it matter if our loved sro first, We all mrrst drink the eup— »« ul must thirst, Even tho’ out* anguished hearts straining may burst? Such is our lot. Mliat does it matter if we’re love! a.ud lost, Paid out tho litter price, counted no cost, And find ourselves at last, beaten and tossed——By all forgo';? This does it matter—to each on* alone — Wlien. they are our troubles,- our very own. And every bitter pain, every deep moan, Others hare not —Ajxij D. Link.