Among the Poets

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16939, 13 January 1923, Page 4

Among the Poets

] 1 Bouquet of Verses |j n .....

THE OLD PEDLAR. Time is a pedlar. Oh, see what he brings Out of his baskets so many bright things ! T.oves and pale longings and triumph iugs gay— Pleasures aucl passions for any old day— But always there’s something, there's something to pay! Time, the old pedlar. He peddles his wares. Up hill and down hollow — Up life's crooked stairs— Flings wide his worn baskets for all who would see, Then stands with his riches piled un to the knee. Comes maiden or grey-beard to see l * from his store, He has for full payment what enen wishes for. “ Come, buy them,” he calls, as he tramps on his way. “ Come, buy what you fancy, but bring me your pay!” Time, you old pedlar. Oh. will you not wait? Short is the road unto life’s guarded gate ! I would buy reckless of all in your po ok— Weepings with laughter—the pangs that T lack - Dreams with delusions—and no taking back ! P.S., in “The Australasian.” VOICES. The voioes of the living world ar ‘ j mocking me with laughter, The voices of the buried dead ar-* mocking me with pain, ’Tis I must leave the homes of men and up and follow after A little voice, a. quiet voice, that whispers in the rain. That whispers in the silver rain anc! calls uie in the swaying Of branches lightly held aloft against a tranquil sky, That breathes upon a troubled lak2 where little winds are playing And lets the trembling wonder grow in ripples running by. The words of men, too bold they arc. too swiftly heard and spoken--I have no need of joy, or grief, or wisdom born of these ! But I shall find a haven where thhush is only broken By the echo of a. little voice—the gossip of the trees. —Helen Frazee-Bower, in the “New York Herald.” THE MOTHER LOOK. It ain’t a smile exactly—yet it’s briru min’ full of joy. An’ meltin’ into sunshine when bends above her boy Or girl when it’s a-sleepin*, with its dreams told in its face; She smooths its hair an’ pets it as sh© lifts it, to its place. It leads all th’ expressions, whether grave or gay or wise— Th’ mother look that glimmers in a lovin’ woman’s eyes. There ain’t a picture of it. If there was they’d have to paint a picture of a woman mostly angel a-T some saint. An’ make it still be human —an’ they’d have to blend the whole. There ain’t a picture of it, for no on j can paint a soul. No one can paint th’ glory coinin’ straight from paradise— Th’ mother look that lingers in a happy woman’s eyes. PEDDLED WATER-LILIES. To-day. upon the noisy street. Grey with dust and grim with heat, Suddenly a fragrance came ! Like a gentle voice, and low. Like a cooling touch it seemed ; And it brought to mind a name, And a. day of long ago. Till T questioned if T dreamed. And I turned in wonder—No. In the basket of a vendor Lay dear memories, fair and tender. Emerald, arid gold, and snow, T ewy-fresh. supremely sweet— Water-lilies ! That grey street! Minnie Leona Upton, in the ‘ Christian Science Monitor.” YESTERDAY. They laid him safe in hi 9 country's ground. His songs all sung and his stories told ; When the people turned from the new. made mound. His grave was dusted with sunset gold. The end? Not the end when a Boot dies. His face in the street shall be soj i no more : We shall miss the glance of his shadowAs we ponder before the Keyless Door. Though we pass no more in the city throng, Lawson, master of smiles and tears. Time defying, his living song. Shall last, and sweeten the rolling years. —P. E. Quinn, in the “ Daily Telegraph.” THE TRAVELLER’S TALE. I have had purple and gold in mj time j I have been crowned, and T have worn fine linen; I have known love more than in man | and woman. j T have been great, and I have been a ; beggar; And if I wrap my memories about dk Like a tattered cloak, they hide the morning Lookiug out upon the immortal mea dows. I have been young, and seen the brighthaired maiden Write on the wall the legend “Ai „ Apollo!” I have been old, and known the purple shadow, And seen the grey-beak’di eagle on the ivory shoulder. Look on this form, this old man. timeforgotten, Whose heart is like a speck of death within him. He goes in gold and purple to his cit/ To live with Hie Immortals. Ernest Rhys in “The Nation."