Selected Verse,

Waikato Times, Volume 108, Issue 18159, 25 October 1930, Page 13 (Supplement)

Selected Verse,

SECRET BEAUTY.

Hugging this secret beauty to my heart I walk in joy; The mortal fret is banished far apart No longer to annoy; And trumpet calls from height to height

are hurled Across the shrinking darkness of the world. Oh but to stay and dwell a little space With such content. Never to lose the land of light and grace In frequent banishment, Ever to feel the flame of beauty burn And never, never, never to return I Yes, for our beauty’s hidden, day by day, Too shy, too rare. In gentle words we think and cannot say, In dreams we cannot share: ■ - And we must walk our several ways, apart And keep the secret beauty in the heart. -—Author Unknown.

SECOND WISDOM

Corn does not hurry, and the black grape swells In the slow cadence of all ripening things; Wise pumpkins idle, and the calm lake dwells In peace above -her unimpetuous springs.

What most unhurried, most full-flavourous is: The earth turns slowly and the tide stands still For him who surely claims, as truly his, Firm fruitage that no hasty blight can kill.

And we who flung ourselves to sudden wars And would not wait for quick scars to be healed, We must recall shrewd pumpkins and slow stars, And be as wise as lilies of the field. —Henry Morton Robinson.

IN A FRIENDLY SORT O’ WAY.

When a man ain’t got a cent, and he’s feeling kind o’ blue, , An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sunshine through, It’s a great thing. O my brethren, for a feller just to lay His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way I

It makes a man feel curious, it makes the (eardrops start. An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy in the region of the heart; You can’t look up. and men I his eyes; you don’t know what to' say When his hand is on your shoulder in a

friendly sort o’ way.

Oh. the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its cares and hitter crosses, but a good world, after all. An’ a good God must have made it —leastways, that, is what I say, When a hand is on my shoulder in a.friendly sort o’ way. —Author Unknown.

SOLILOQUY. The sun is low over the prairie hills. Long rays enfold the little farmhouse that Stood glaringly all day. This cool wind blows s * And the windmill turns onward mournfully. "I oan save by not hiring help this year. , I oan .work late. The children oan do the chores. Perhaps a combine might harvest easier, But I can save this year. Next year’s .better.” The fields are like crazy patterns laid down By the god of the harvest —yellow fields with brown shocks In a careless regularity—tasseled corn, leaves curled — There is a sound like a woman walking in silks. “That cow aborted and the other won’t go dry, Butter fat is low now. I should sell more and buy less. Rotation is good. That clover brought three crops, The oats in the low ground are heavy. The corn is poor. 1 ’ The red moon is up. Three worlds melt into one. Night and the moon and the stars sing together. The owls are hooting. A dog barks. And lamps 'are lit. There is music at home, and love and children there. "Seventy-five acres of corn—maybe two thousand dollars. I’ll feed it down first. Hogs may be high this Fall. I’ve too many horses—and mortgages. That horse Might bring a hundred. We shoifld raise more chickens.” The cattle huddle together in the yard; I too, am tired. —Raymond Kresensky.

HARVEST

Upon the musky altars of the earth The ripened gold of corn is his to keep:. His apples turn the ruddy cheeks of mirth To sun that goes in splendour to its sleep. From far his brook glints silver back to him And wings pass over him into the iiaze With light upon them, and his eyes grow dim A moment with the thankfulness of days.

He stands in silence: on his lifted face The soft light touches quiet strength that

grew To meet the odds against it. His own place Was his to shape and love ... At last he

knew A heart-finds richness, scorning wintry fears, Among•-th<3-,mellow harvests of the years. —Glen Ward Dresbach.