WHAT THE POET THINKS HE THINKS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XIII, Issue II, 14 July 1894, Page 48

WHAT THE POET THINKS HE THINKS.

Full oft the poet sings, In the sky on happy wings, Of the beanties of his golden long ago ; Abont the endless joy Of the happy barefoot boy, And the farmstead where the roses used to blow. But the reason that the poet feels the rare and fragrant charm

Of the clover-scented meadow with its locust rat-tat-tat, Is because he sees the beauties of the sweet secluded farm Through the optics of the comfort of his heaven-scraping flat.

The tun of tossing hay On a pleasant sunny day He depicts with silken pillows ’round his brow ; And in an easy chair S’ngs of rural zephyrs rare, While he thinks he’d like to milk the kicking cow. But be has no time for haying, and the zephyrs that he

knows By the river o’er the roof-tops is successfully dispensed, And he wouldn’t milk a Jersey, though the only milk that

flows For his use the grocer furnishes each rosy morn—condensed.

The babbling silver spring Is a most refreshing thing When the lily on its bosom softly blows ; This the poet ever feels As he gaily rests his heels On the sofa, and the Pilsener richly flows. Oh, the country of one's childhood is with beauty lush and

ripe, It is bright with lovely flowers that in fragrance wave and sigh, But the time to fully feel it is when you smoke your brier

pipe In a comfortable flat, although it’s almost in the sky. R.K.M.