SELECTED VERSE

Waikato Times, Volume 102, Issue 17242, 29 October 1927, Page 13 (Supplement)

SELECTED VERSE

NEIGHBOURS. Say the chimney pots of Paris to the chimney pots of London — “0, how dingy and how dull are the sights which you must see!” For you live in foggy air And a crown of soot you wear, And do not have as many lovely shining days as wel”

Say the chimney pots of London to the chimney pots of Paris—- “ You cannot even guess at the charming things we see I We look in instead of out And discover without a doubt It is not fog or sun That makes happy everyone. But what they think about! For have not you observed, as in London so in Paris, Weather cannot much embarrass? For it really doesn’t matter, When folks may kindly chatter, And exchange the time of day Though the skies be blue or gray!”

Say the chimney pots of Paris to the chimney pots of London—- “ Spoken like an English cousin. Words of wisdom, a full dozen 1 Pardon us for backward turning, We have things we must be learning— On your chimneys go on twirling, We too shall be gayly whirling, We have business down below, It is supper time, you know!”

THE UNCOVERED PATH. Alder, maple, and birch, and starting pines Stood where now this delicate ivy twines, Inviting into the forest. No one knew Of the path that waited to pull a wanderer through, Nor how many years it slept there out of the sun. Cutting the daylight in, we saw it '■ run— Awake and afraid—and followed it down to the brook. You go first; go gently; and we shall look At the long lane of needles over the rocks That day on day heard only the feet of the fox. We never can step so soft; but tbe end is where The water, gathering, falls. So we may dare To loiter at last, and utter a careless word. The path will have gone again, and not have heard.

CLIPPER SHIPS.

Ships are the nearest things to dreams that hands have ever made, For somewhere deep in their oaken hearts the soul of a song is laid; A soul thaL sings with the ship along through plunging hills of blue, And lilts her canvas cups of white with winds that drive her through. For how could a nail and a piece of wood, tied with a canvas thread, Become a nypmh on moon-washed paths if the soul of the ship were lied?

Her bosom throbs as her lover’s arms clasp her in fond embrace, And tile joyous kiss of briny lips is fresh on her maiden face. No storm can smother the hempen sony that wells in her laughing throat— Small wonder then that men go mad for the love of the sea and a boat. For the singing sheet is a siren that tugs at the hearts of men, And down to the sea they must go once more tho’ they never come back again. ASSURANCE. Be assured, I would not say it, If I did not know it true; Take it to your heart, and weigh it— I love no one else hut you. Mildred, Mary, Eve and Ella, Ethel, Betty, Gertrude, Sue, Rita, Mabel, Myrtle, Stella Never doubted—why should you? —London Opinion. “I HAVE TOO HAPPY BEEN.” I have too happy been, Some sad Fate envies me. An arrow she, unseen, Has fitted to her bow, And smiling grim, I know Let the drawn shaft leap free. Deep in my side it pierced: With sudden pain I shook, And gazed around, the accurst Perfidious foe to espy: —Lo, only you are nigh, With sweet and troubled look. PRO AND CON. When Death appears beside my bed, And with lean finger beckons me, And I arise and follow him Along the road I cannot see. Shall I be glad that I am done With all the weariness and pain; Or sorry that I shall not see The rose and daffodil again? Shall I be glad that jealousy, And care and anger, have an end; Or sorry that the shadows close For ever over wife and friend? Shall I be glad to take my rest, And cast the blunted tools aside; Or sorry, going, I must leave So much unfinished and untried? And, as the frescoed memories pass From sunny May to grim December, Shall 1 be glad that I forget, Or sorry I shall not remember? FROM EVERYONE TO EVERYONE. If I knew you, and you knew me, And both of us could clearly see, I’m sure that we would' differ less. And clasp our hands in friendliness: If I knew you, and you knew me. In men whom men pronounce as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I hesitate to draw the line Between the two when God has not. —Joaquin Miller, i