SELECTED VERSE.

Waikato Times, Volume 97, Issue 1600, 31 May 1924, Page 13 (Supplement)

SELECTED VERSE.

THE POWER OF A SRIULE. In brooding thought I' sit and pine. And think of my unhappy lot, Unloved! Uncared!—in solitude. 1 spend my days: nor care rune jot What life may bring from flay to day And often think "Is life worth whale ?" Then 'ike a ray of sunshine conies The memory of a tender smile. Depressed by sorrow, silent, love \ The mournful river, off to me. Has whispered of a peace and rest, Oblivion of my misery. Yet! through the tenseness of the strain. Like "sight of land" to the exile Flashes before me vision clear. A Kind face with a tender smile. With courage, hope, and faith renewed, Once more I take my burden up. And the' ]. staler 'neaith the load, Th,' bitterness has left my cup: A tender*smile fresh courage gave. Chased brooding thoughts to flight awhile, Renewed mv faith in God and Man, Such is fhe power of a smile. —"Luggacurren." Hamilton. THE TALL TREES OF ENGLAND.

The fair green woods are falling. Cut down from glade to glade. They have gone from the glad bird's calling To the ciash of the cannonade. The green trees, the English frees. In war their part have played. They are shelter huts for hidden hosts; They are bridge and pole and bar: In trenches stand the wooden posts Rough-hewn with many a scar. The fall trees, the friendly trees Have followed their men to war. They waved to sun and bent to storms In every park and town. They carried bird-broods in their arms, Wore blossoms as their crown; The green trees, the kindly frees, Now hacked and stricken down. The trees, the troops, in brotherhood Go sailing from flic shore: On the shorn banks win, re forests stood Slim dryads flit no more; For the fall frees, the ancient frees, No niafiie may restore. "The fair jsreen woods are falling." Say stricken hearts that break. "if death to our sous is calling, ile well our trees may take, But fhe tall trees, and the brave men, We rive Litem for England's sake." ON A SUDDEN DISTURBANCE. A tumult in the kitchen! Cup and cup Ring out their protest. Glasses jangling wake

The silence. and the Dutch clock chokes a tick. The candle flickers and down drops the wick. The grey cat starts, and stiffly arches up, And wonders wild-eyed at the noise they make. Tumult grows silent. Kettle gently sings. The candle burns with steady flame and lakes The leaping shadows from the wall, and draws Them firm and still. The cat with outstretched paws, Purrs over the fender dreaming happy things. Bravely the kettle thrills and bubbling makes

J A fire song. Glasses gleam; the china winks In flamelight; and the Dutch clock stares and thinks. ■. —V. C. .Clinton-Baddeley, in Lopdon Mercury.

THE SCARF. I have waked in the ni.cht to listen In the greening of the year. To the silken sounds of raindrops And found if good to hear. I have caught Hie fluttered silence To me like a soft shawl. And lightly wrapped me in the comfort Of hearing thin nun fall. —Hazel Hall, in "Voices."

ORPHANS. The orphans sleep in a big, hare room, Their beds are all in rows — And whv an even space between Not any orphan knows. They go to walk in afternoons, Their hats are always blue. The little one go hand in hand, And always two by two. Som-eiimes 1 look beneath the brim That shades an orphan's eyes, And. radiance that's hidden there Gives me a fresh surprise, it makes me think of a row of flowers In a forgotten yard, That push their way through cracks in the walk, When the earth is trodden hard. —Caroline Ainslie, in "Harper's."

THE SOUL SPEAKS. "Here is Honour, the dying knight, And here is Truth, the snuffed-out light, And here is Faith; the broken staff. And here is Knowledge, the throttle.! laugh. And there arc Fame, the lost surprise, Virtue, the uncontested prize, And Sacrifice, the suicide, And here the wilted (lower, Pnide. , Under the crust of things that die Living, unfathomed, here am 1."

—Edward 11. Pfeffer. THEY TOLD ME, HERACLEITUS. They told mi\ Herucleitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as ] remembered, how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Garian guest. A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he. taketh all away,- but Uiem he cannot -take*