Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 12, 21 September 1910, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Completion. HEN shall I meet God's gener- // I OUs dispensers Of a U the riches in the heavenly store, Those lesser gods who act as recompenses For loneliness and loss upon this shore. Methinks abashed, and somewhat hesitating, My soul its wish and longing will declare, Lest they reply, “ There are no bounties waiting; We gave on earth your portion and your share.” Then shall I answer: “Yea, I do remember The many blessings to my life allowed. My June was always longer than December; My sun was always mightier than my cloud. My joy was ever deeper than my sorrow, My gain was ever greater than my loss; My yesterday seemed less than my tomorrow, The crown looked always larger than the cross. “I have known love in all its radiant splendour; It shone upon my pathway to the end. I trod no road that did not bloom with tender And fragrant blossoms planted by some friend. And those material friends we call successes, In modest measure crowned my earthly lot. Yet there was one sweet happiness that blesses Tlie life of woman, which to me came not.

“ I knew the hope of motherhood. A season I felt a fluttering heart beat ’neath my own. A little cry —then silence. For this reason I dare to you my only wish make . known. The babe who grew to angelhood in Heaven I never watched unfold from child to man, And so I ask that unto me be given That motherhood which was God’s primal plan. “All womankind he meant to shale its glories: He meant us all to nurse our babes to rest. To croon them songs and tell them sleepy stories, Else why the wonder of a woman’s breast ? lie must provide for all earth’s cheated mothers In his vast heavens of shining sphere on sphere, And with my son there must be many others, Mv spirit children, who will claim me here. “Fair creatures by my living thoughts created, Too finely fashioned for a mortal birth, Between the borders of two worlds they waited Until they saw my spirit leave the earth. In God’s great nursery they must be thronging To welcome me with many an infant wile. Now let me go and •satisfy this longing To mother children for a little while.’’ —Ella Wheeler Wilsox.

Pan in a Child s Garden. There is a time in every day When 1 have had enough of play. And go wherever she may be To hear the tales she tells to me. Her voice is low—her hands are cool: She seems so sweet and wonderful I like to sit there at her feet: Are Mothers always made so sweet? She tells me fascinating things Of birds that talk and elves with wings And Dryads and the Shadow-man: But most she’ tells me about Pan. Pan is a god—that is to say, He was once—in a faraway, Wild hilly country by the sea: She always calls it A ready. The strange thing is that tho’ they said Long, long ago that Pan was dead, She thinks somehow he still lives on, When all the other godo are gone. She says he only asked one thing, Better than all the worshipping To be remembered: for he knew Remembering was loving too. If you but care for him instead Of telling people he is dead, She says that almost anywhere You may surprise him unaware. And when I asked her if she thought He would be kind to me if caught— She said that Pan —as I should find— Quite made a point of being kind. Since then I've hunted high and low For Pan. No matter where 1 go The garden wears a curious look Of hiding him in some queer nook. She said that if I were to hear Soft laughter- then old Pan was near, But to be sure you really need Three piercing notes upon a reed. I search for him and wonder why A god so old should be so shy? Ami all the time it seems so odd To think any garden holds a god! —Grace Hazard Conkling.

Man Ascending. The rise of man is endless: be in Hope: Ail sears are gathered in his horoscope. The brute man of the planet he will pass. Blow n out Jike forms of vapour on a glass, And from this- quaking pulp of Lfe will The Superman. child of the higher skies— Immortal, he will break tho ancient liars, Laugh, and reach out his hands among the stars. —Edwin Markham. To a Child Reading. For thirly seven years the author o', the following pathetic sonnet has been blind, being in St. Francis Xavier's College at the time h:o sight failed him. For twenty-three years he has conducted a. paper in Harlem, New York City. Now he publishes a volume of poems. Aly darling, spell the words out. You may creep Across the syllables on handr; ami knees, And stumble often, yet pass me with And reach the spring upon the summit steep. Ob, I could lay me down, dear child, and weep These charred orbs out, but .that you then might cease Your upward effort, ami with inquiries Stoop down ami probe my heart too deep, too deep! I thirst for Knowledge. Oh, for an endless drink! Your goblet leaks the whole way from the springNo matter, to its rim a few drops cling. Ami those refresh me with the joy to til ink That you, my darling, have the morning's wing l'o cross the mountain at whose base I sink. — Edward Do vie.