SELECTED VERSE.

Waikato Times, Volume 97, Issue 15230, 5 May 1923, Page 11 (Supplement)

SELECTED VERSE.

THE WAYSIDE SHRINE.

(An Incident in Flanders, 1917.)

One sunny day, Far from the battle's roar, some children strayed, In the deep meadow grass and laughed and played, As little children may.

But suddenly A blue-eyed maiden saw a wayside

shrine, The Cross, the form of Him, and with a sign She murmured plaintively,

"Our Father," while The tiny hands pressed tightly to her

breast, As if to still the heart in its unrest; Then, with a wistful smile,

"Forgive us—our Trespasses"—the tears fell fast—"as

we The little breast heaved like the summer sea—"As we" —in vain the power

To speak again. Just then a noble form knelt at the shrine, A tender voice spoke low, "Father divine, Our loss shall be our gain. "Forgive them, Lord, That trespass against us"; and the little child , Knelt by the King,' who took her hand and smiled. God's sunlight on them poured. —Harriet Kendall. THE DAFFODIL. Who passes down the wintry street? Hey, ho, daffodil I A sudden flame of gold and sweet. With sword of emerald girt so meet, And golden gay from head to feet. How arc you here this wintry day? Hey, ho, daffodil! Your radiant fellows yet delay. No windflower dances scarlet gay, Nor crocus-flame lights up the way. What land of cloth o' gold and green, Hey, ho, daffodil! Cloth o' gold with the green between.

Was that you left but yestere'en To light a gloomy world and mean?

King trumpeter to Flora queen, Hey, ho, daffodil! ■ Blow, and the golden jousts begin. —Katharine Tynan. HEATH. Glory of the mountain height, Home of beast and bird; Hardy arc the men who tread Where your notes are heard; High, uplifted, is the theme Wakened by your call, Hills that catch the rising beam. Where eve's splendours fall I Glorious are the blossomed sprays Of the heath-bell flower; Glorious are the ghostly paths Where the rushes flower; Lonely is the lapwing's call, Rising from the sod, Where a thousand tiny flowers Lift the heart to God. \ When the moon across the peaks Silvers moss and whin, And the haunted paths between Lie a braid within, Ghostly heroes well might meet, Ghostly whispers rise. No Man's Land on this highway Opens to the eyes! Oh, the valley is so sweet, Level, low, and long; Gentle ways where grasses meet, Full of scent and song; But the odour of the hay Is not half so dear As the sharpened heathy scent Drunk by strollers here! All the world belongs to God, All is beauteous too; But the heroes of our kind Trod the mountains blue—■ Men who lifted up the race From a low decay, Found a, home amid the heath, Sang their pride alway. Bees are singing in the blooma As I homeward go, Gorscs roll their flossy flowers Wondrous row on row; Rushes trammel walking feet, Whortleberries shine; Oh, a walk across the height Kindles force divine! —W. J. Gallagher.

AT THE TIME OF CLEAR WEATHER. In the agreeable gardens of Poplar, The bushes arc bright with buds, For this is the time of clear weather, There blossom the quiet flowers of this country— The timid lilac, The unassuming hawthorn, The dignified chestnut, Then the girlish laburnum; And the mandarin of them all Is the rhododendron.

In the unlillod field of my heart, Many buds arc bursting, There is a little bush of kindness towards all men; There is a slender tree of forgiveness for all wrongs; There is a humble growth of repentance for past sins; And around the field is a thick hedge

of thankfulness. And lo! in the midst of all Stands the tree of a hundred boughs, Laden with the sweetest of all buds, Which are breaking to flower under the sun of a maiden's eyes.

SNARES. Delicate threads of pearly gray, Laden with dew at dawn of day; Gossamer web of filmy lace— Woven witii skill and wondrous grace Beautiful maze —but flies —beware I Danger lurks in this dainty snare. Plausible words of subtle charm, Giving no hint of latent harm. Temptations veiled in witching guise Reveal —too late —their specious lies. Unwary folks —take heed—beware! Danger lurks in each cunning snare. —Adelaide Pollock,