Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 22, 1 December 1909, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

A Change. IF thus hast squandered years io' grave a gem " ' Commission’d by thine absent Lord; and while ’Tis incomplete, Others would bribe thy needy skill to them— Dismiss them to the street. Should’st thou at last discover Beauty’s grove, At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track, Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love— Turn, at her bidding, back. When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every spectre mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d fears— Then to the Helm, O Soul! Tast, if upon the cold green-mantling sea Thon cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, Both castaway, And one must perish—let it not be he Whom thou art sworn to ol>ey! © © © Enchantment. I know a land of rest for all, Most excellent for eamping; Where through the forest primeval The startled deer go stamping. Where trout go leaping up the falls Of merry, rushing brooklets; Where nature, sweet-voiced nature calls— It’s in the railroad booklets.

The Triflers. •_ Go. your way and I’ll go mine, Neither of us need repine; Hearts unscathed.and faith' - unblasted We enjoy jt while it lasted, * Vowing always, trusting never, It could not go on forever. You pretended—so did I, It was such a pleasant lie; You were false to me—to you I was false and faithless, too; And we knew it all along, Laughed—and never thought it wrong! Here’s the ending of our jest, Moek we made of all that’s best; Still, had you been more sincere, 1 had loved you truly, dear; And had I been honest —well, It’s all over, who can tell? —Berton Braley. © © © Love Up to Date. (Dr. Sheldon Leavitt, a Chicago scientist, asserts that the seat of the affections is not in the heart, but in the solar plexus.) No more we write of hearts and darts When love’s young dreams perplex us — We know that Cupid’s arrows fly Right at the solar plexus. When now a sighing lover pleads (Ah, how love’s trials vex us), tie lays his hand not on his heart, But o’er his solar plexus. (A maid who naught of science knows, This gesture strange may question, And think, instead of signs of love, ’Tis pangs of indigestion.) Our valentines we must revise; A poet’s fancy decks us With rhymes unhackneyed, fresh ano new, About the solar plexus.

Red Roses. When first I saw the .road of Love, Whereon I longed to tread,' , Methought ’twas strewn from end to end With roses,'.roses red. ■. • u a:>nv Yet wheii myself I Walked the road, Nd fosds”’theife Tkhew; These but red footprints on the path, Wherein I followed, too. Oh, weary is the Road of Love, For all it seemeth fair, And weary, weary are the feet That leave red roses there. And would to those who follow me Some warning I might say— Yet I myself onee only saw Red roses all the way. Theodosia Garrison. © © © The Vision Days. We dwelt within a house of pearl In those old days of wondering joy—You were the golden wide-eyed girl, I was the silent lonely boy. To what far country have they passed, Those things we dreamed, so sweet and strange — Far sea-c-aught morns that might not last, Fresh winds of dawning, doomed to change ? I wove your tresses with the wind, And filled your eyes with sunrise gleam. A voiceless longing made me blind (For children dream as poets dream). Often I wish to stand onee more, Not yet made wise, beside that sea Whose silver waters wash no shore, But islanded with phantasy—Where all the air was living gold Out to the far horizon’s haze, Towards which the vision-ships of old Bore off our fading vision-days. I think you sometimes now must, go In secret to that distant .place Where still they bloom—to-day their glow Was tender in your lifted face. —Arthur Davison Ficke.

The Gift. Shall I send you some books for you: birthday? Some novels, some poems, or plays; Something cool for the sunshine of August, And hot for the chill wintry days? Something sleepy for afternoon tea time, As you 1011, with that grace Which is yours; Or a novel of pride, pulse, and passion For your coffee, your smoke and liqueurs? Something light, when you're propped up with pillows. Ere your maid bustles in with your t ray. That would do when you'd finished your letters', And dressed for the rush of the day? Something witty to help you at luncheon, If you happened to be there alone; The tale of a girl from the country, And the fellow who threw the first stone? No! I’ll send you no memoirs or history, No story of virtue or sin, But a cheque book that's signed—and the figures, I'll leave those for you to fill in. © © © A Call to Science. When yon mourn o'er the bison that fades from the plain And weep for the dado of yore. When game laws you pass in the hope to maintain The world's zoological store; When the auk you’re discussing in speech of a kind That’s instructive, though far from succinct, Has it ever occurred to your erudite mind That the sea serpent's growing extinct? Shall we lose this gay monster who gamboled about In a genial though cumbersome style? Shall we eease to salute him with welcoming shout As he gives us a cavernous smile? In the studious solitude wise men affect, And likewise where glasses are clinked, Let’s organise swiftly and try to protect An old friend from growing extinct.