Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 6, 11 August 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Onu*ia Somnia. AWN drives the dreams away. ■ yet some abide. J Once in a tide of pale and x—X sunless weather, I dreamed I wandered on a bare hillside, When suddenly the birds sang all together. Still it was Winter, even in the dream; There was no leaf nor bud nor young grass springing; The skies shone cold above the frostbound stream; It was not Spring, and yet the birds were singing. Blackbird and thrush and plaintive wil-low-wren, Chaffinch and lark and linnet, all were calling; A golden web of music held me then, Innumerable voices, rising, falling. O, never do the birds of April sing More sweet than in that dream I still remember; Perchance the heart may keep its songs of Spring Even through the wintry dream of life’s December. © © © The Joy o’ Life. Oh, the Joy o’ Life goes singing through the highway, Oh, the Joy o’ Life goes swinging through the green, And the form of her is slight as a crescent moon at night, And her face is some strange flower none hath seen. She beckoned me, and what could I but follow I

(Oh, I have seen the glamour of her eyes!) Through the winding o’ the ways, through the hundred night and days, Must I follow where she lures me, woman-wise. My plough—l left it idle in the furrow — My harvest lies for other eyes to scan, For it’s fare ye well to loam, to hearthstone and to home When the Joy o’ Life is calling to a man. Oh, the Joy o’ Life she calls me from the valley. Oh, the Joy o’ Life, she calls me from the height, And her voice is like the thrill of the thrush when noon is still And her laughter is the lilting of delight. I follow through the sunshine and the moonshine—(Oh, I have seen the waving of her hand!) In the paths that know the fleet, flying touches of her feet At the music of her mocking of command. My friend —I left him fasting at my threshold, My sweetheart is another man’s to wife, For it’s fare ye well my own, and it’s laugh and turn alone When a man has heard the voice of Joy o’ Life. ® © ® When He’s “ It.” The farmer’s life has cares and joys, His work is long and hard and rough; He slaves from dawn till after dark, To raise and grow and own enough, But there’s a bright side to his life, His sorrows he can always drown When, with his team, he’s hired to haul A busted auto back to town.

The Song of the Vine. Poet— O Vine along my garden wall, Could I thy northern slumber break, And thee from wintry exile disenthrall, Where would thy spirit wake? Vine— I would, wake at the hour of dawning in May in Italy, When rose-mists rise from the Magra’s valley plains In the field of maize and' olives around Pontremoli, When peaks grow golden and clear and the starlight wanes: I would wake to the dance of the sacred mountains boundlessly Kindling their marble snows in the rite of tire, — To them my new-born tendrils softly and soundlessly Would uncurl and aspire. I would hang no more on thy wall a rusted slumberer, Listless and fruitless, strewing the pathways ctld; I would seem no more in thine eyes an idle cumberer, Profitless alien, bitter and sere and old. In some warm, terraced dell, where the Roman rioted, And still in tiers his stony theatres heaves, Would I festoon with leaf-light his glory quieted And shade 1$ thrones with leaves. Doves from the mountain belfries would seek and cling to me To drink from the altar, beating the fragrant airs; Women from olived hillsides by turns would sing to me, Culling the olives or stooping afield in pairs; On gala evenings the gay little carts of labourers, Swinging from axlea their horns against evil eye, And crowded with children, revellers, pipers, and laborers, Chanting, would pass me by. —Herbert Trench, in “McClure’s Magazine.”

Anne. Her eyes be like the violets, Ablow in Sudbury-lane; When she doth smile, her face is sweet As blossoms after rain; With grief I think of my grey hairs, And wish me young again. In comes she through the dark old doer Upon this Sabbath day; And she does bring the tender wind That sings in bush and tree; And hints of al] the apple boughs That kissed her by the way. Our parson stands up straight and tall. For our dear souls to pray, And of the place where sinners go, Some gruesome things doth say; Now, she is highest Heaven to me; So Hell is far away. Most stiff and still the good folk sit To hear the sermon through; But if our God be such a God, And if these things be true, Why did he make her, then, so fair. And both her eyes so blue? A flickering light, the sun creeps in, And finds her sitting there; And touches soft her lilae gown, And soft her yellow hair; I look across to that old pew, And have both praise and prayer. Oh, violets in Sudbury-lane, Amid the grasses green, This maid who stirs ye with her feet Is far more fair, I ween! I wonder how my forty years Book by her sweet sixteen.' - —Lizette Woodworth Reese, in “A Branch of May.” © © © The Pup. Upon my coatsleeve is a hair Which doth a story tell. It proves a head hath rested there And proves it pretty well. I’ll trump up no excuses fine For I admit, you see, I just can’t keep that pup of mine From climbing up on me.