Verse Old and New

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLI, Issue 19, 4 November 1908, Page 48

Verse Old and New

Nirvana. Nirvana is not nothingness, no, not at all to me; J place it in a summer isle, embraced by azure sea. Nor must I follow Buddha’s faith if 1 would have a chance To reach his highest recompense, the Great Deliverance. 1 find that in my snug retreat, where worldly hustling* cease; W hose ways are ways of pleasantness, where every path is peace. A drowsy, bowered hermitage, whose vistas never tire; A realm of the Land of Heart's Desire. The South Sea. sings its cradle-song my Shore of Sleep around, And warm winds, droning dreamily, this chorus seem to sound: “There’s nothing half so sweet in life, in sooth, as our caress; Its perfume brings oblivion’s serene forgetfulness. Come, rest you, all you weary ones! oh, slumber, all you sad! tSo shall you quit disquietude, and, waking, shall be glad.” For it is fixed that he who gains the gift of Nature’s kiss Knows everlasting peacefulness, and peacefulness is bliss. And bliss is but Nirvana, briefly put, in English phrase, »So I may find my Paradise before 1 end my days. J need not chance Elysium, my Paradise is where The surf foams white on coral walls that fence a garden fair And fruitful as that floral dream which Milton's stanzas limit, Where Man the First knew happiness ere Woman came to him. Its spell attends a some-day's glad translation to bestow Appeasement on a yearning soul that loved it long ago. And, though its charted name and site I don't precisely state, Le>t others rush my Eden-nook until its charms abate, There is no ringed monopoly in rare and radiant goals, Though seeing eyes must seek for them, and men are mostly moles; For. somewhere sure waits Paradise on earth for every man, If only he can win to if; ah, if he only can! Nirvana is not nothingness, nor need one die to find The best of all beatitudes, tranquility of mind. K.S.W. —Talafekau. & Escape. Oh for spare, sweet air, clean rain! How these streets lie reeking! Love, let’s be our own again. Hear our own souls speaking. Let us get these walls beyond, To wave, ami star, and heather; Feel once more the primal bond 4nat binds the world together. Free white road ami wild free life, What could we win letter? Never a touch of town-bred strife, Never a feel of fetter. y»t. full service still to give A world that thousands sigh in, Aye, with larger scope to live. And lighter air to die in. Deep hid in the old grass lanes Leap- out tent-side fire, While the western roue light wanes, A gold moon gliding higher; Blackcap sings our supper through, Mating in the willow. Then two brown arms, my mate, for you, A brown breast for my pillow. •To rolling stones no moss shall conic/’ Croaks the worldling ever; Tell him. sweet, no clogging scum Mars the running river! Oh’ let wag the nead— I watch my woodsmoke wreathing, Happy in my ferny bed. dfriaidc Jour quiet breathing. HABBERTON LULHAM.

Spring Shopping. It was the busy hour of four When from a city hardware store Emerged a gentleman who bore t> screens, 50 feet of garden hose, 1 rake, 1 wheelbarrow. This gentleman with air distraught A big department shop then sough* And there invested in, or bought 40 yards mosquito netting, 1 hammock, 1 eroquet set. His business next our hero leads . Unto a place which retails seedt It takes to satisfy his needs 24 packages assorted annuals, 10 rose bushes, 1 peck mixed bulbs. The sun was low behind a hill When he got to Lonelyville And then. 11 wife in accents shrill Pointed out that he’d forgotten the sprinkling ean, the pruning shears, and the lawnmower. “Louisville Courier Journal.” © © © The Spooners. Together we sat in a tete-a-tete, The prettiest girl and I. The light was out and the hour was late, For time, you know, will fly! By Jove, How rapidly time will fly! Together we sat in the welcome gloom Alone, unheard, unseen, Though her mother was in the other room With a thin portiere between. I knew that her mother in ambush lay— As mothers do. it seems— To earry the prettiest girl away, Away to the land of dreams. . By Jove! To the wonderful land of dreams. But the cherry like lips of the pretty miss, . Alas, were a tempting sight. And I ventured to beg for a tiny kiss — Just one, before “Good-night.” But the prettiest girl resented that In a way I’d never dreamed, For she airily sprang from w’here we sat And, what do you think? She screamed! By Jove! She certainly did, she screamed! 1 caught the coquette in my arms—Alack For such is the way of men— And gruffly demanded of her a smack, And then—and then—and then Her mother came cruelly in with a light Ami—what do you think she said? “Oh, eome little lady, kiss daddy goodnight,” And carried her oft’ to lied, by Jove! And carried the babe to bed! —The Bohemian Magazine. © © © The Man With the Spade. "What are the chickens laughing for?” said Suburbs, with a spade. “To see you dig, to see you dig,” the City’ Cynic said. “What makes ’em wait, what makes ’em wait?” said Suburbs with a spade. “They’re waiting for the seed you plant,” the City Cynic said. For they love a country garden, with room to scratch and play ; They hope you'll keep on diggin’ and arakin’ clods away, An’ when you start to plantin’ vegetables they’ll be gay, For they’re ready to start scratchin’ in the mornin'! i “What are the roosters crowin’ for?” said Suburbs with a spade. 'And hear the hens a-eaeklin'!” “Oh, yes!” the Cynic said: "They're glad to see those packages of seed you brought from town, An’ so they’re sendin’ tidings of the good times yp ami down!” For they know you’ll never see ’em when another sun shall rise. Although it’s growin’ weather and the summer’s in the skies; It’s buying feed for chickens every seed a fellow buysFor they’re ready to start scratehin’ in the niornin'! Bentz town Bard.

Complain te. I would have been a poet of the sun, ,’Singing day’s honour in deep summer’s green; But with the dawn (the day hour scarce begun),. Dusk closed around with twilight screen. And yet a singer of the sun. I would have been. T would have been a poet of great joy, Winging joy’s sweetness and her grace serene; But through the prelude notes, I, joy's envoy, Heard the slow tears that fell between. And yet a singer of great joy 1 would have been. 1 would) have been a poet of love’s crown, Singing within his aureole unseen; But in love’s spring life trod love down, Bayleaf nor myrtle mine to glean. And yet a singer of love’s crown I would have been. A dusk forlorn at daybreak for my light, And' for great joy a sorrow swift and keen; Between my song and me, in love’s Maynight A barren hope did intervene. And yet a singer of life’s light I would have been.