PRIZE POEM.
Winter’s Tapestry. Grave Winter sits in meditative mood. Weaving her bobbin slowly in and out On Autumn’s tapestry— As if by chance her listless fingers wooed Silver and grey threads, and then, as if in doubt About her wisdom— White and then red strands mingled ’mongst the grey. Then conscience smote her, and she began to pluck. Alas she plucked Vainly at grey and silver strands that lay On that great picture, but ill-luck As often does— Dogged her tired hands and she began to weep. An old woman’s fancies, alas the gold’s are done. Gone for awhile— The silver lives, the gold ones are asleep. A great new tapestry is now begun For Winter reigns. (Original.) Nola Tonks.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TS19330708.2.214.10
Bibliographic details
Star (Christchurch), Volume LXIV, Issue 809, 8 July 1933, Page 26 (Supplement)
Word Count
121PRIZE POEM. Star (Christchurch), Volume LXIV, Issue 809, 8 July 1933, Page 26 (Supplement)
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