SELECTED VERSE.

Waikato Times, Volume 98, Issue 16096, 20 September 1924, Page 11 (Supplement)

SELECTED VERSE.

STOWAWAY, I crossed the gangway in the winter's raining, Late in the night, when it was dreary dark; The only sounds the rain's hiss, and complaining Of chafing hawsers holding that lean barque.

She sailed before the dawn. * The evening found me A seasick nipper, hidden In spare

sails. I feared they'd drag me out, and may-

be drown me— The barque was trembling, dipping both her rails.

Soon I crept forth. Her long lee rail was sweeping. A homing ship drove by with hurrying feet, A school of porpoises all round her leaping, White stars dipped low, her dizzied spars to greet.

"Three cheers!" they cried, and I could hear their voices, And the sharp beating of her clanged iron bells; Her music faded, merged in the sea's noises, And she was gone, loud cheering down the swells.

And in me then a something seemed to waken, And I was mazed. It was as though the sea, Or the big topsails by the night wind shaken, Had cast a sort of magiv over me.

The mastheads reeled.' In the bright north the Dipper Hung dazzling diamonds round the sails, ghost white. The seas were dim, and the deepbreathing clipper Quivered her feet and shook with sheer delight.

It's long ago, my first night on the sea, And I'm grown old, and sailing days are sped; And I am waiting, waiting patiently. Till other topsails gleam above my head.

There'll be a wharf, I know, where I am going, There'll be a gangway for the likes o' me; There'll be some lofty packet seaward blowing— There'll be fine ships on that eternal sea!. FORGET-ME-NOT. When first Dame Nature named the flowers Somehow she passed one by. It was so very shy and small She never noticed it at all, Until she heard it cry; She • turned and saw the bluc-cyed maid Whose name she had forgot; And as her stock of names was done, And feeling sorry for this one, Called her "Forget-Me-Not." And thus it is this sweet blue flower Is so called still until this hour. —Leslie Hurd. RHODODENDRONS. There are purple rhododendrons where the water meets the trees; Purple banks of rhododendrons, crimson, amethyst, cerise; Purple woods of rhododendrons burning fiercely in the dark, As anyone will tell you who /has been in Richmond Park. But the magic potions brewing where the rhododendrons shine, The chalices of colour making glad the heart like wine; These strange intoxications are for those alone who mark The purple groves of Bacchus hidden deep in Richmond Park. t —Claudine Currey. FROM EXILE. I long to see the blackthorn's fllmy veil— A mist of lace flung out across the hedge— And golden streams of gorse split on the edge, • i Just where the hill stoops lown to j meet the vale; Fair primroses in fragile loveliness, And bluebells swaying in the fragrant breeze, And presently the snowy hawthorn trees, Each one a bride in dainty wedding dress. And then I want to smell the wild-rose flowers, To feel the downland air blow soft and sweet, To touch the little downflowers at my feet, And hear the larks sing through the ?olden hours! —L. G. Moberly. W - " ■ '"™ r HAMLET. "And all the gardens of the town Are but Ophelia's flowers; And all the shades of Elsinome Fly round our Springfield towers: And Hamlet kneels by all the hearts That truly bleed or bloom, As saints do stations of the cross To Christ's white tomb. And all the birds keep singing To my heart bowed down: J 'Hamlet. Hamlet, will never lose his crown.' '' i NOCTURNE. Blue Water ... a clear moon . . . In the moonlight the white herons are flying. ; Listen! Do you hear the girls who J gather water chestnuts" They are going homo in the night, singing. --From the Chinese of Li Po.