Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 25, 21 December 1910, Page 75

Verse Old and New.

Canoeing by Night. VER the blue of the lake, if Under the blue of the sky, l/S J A trail of enchantment we make Through ripples that chuckle and sigh; We flit over haunts of the trout Where they hide from the fisherman crew, And the spell of the moon's all about As we paddle our slim canoe. A silvery path leads on To tile land that the fairy-folk ken, Where they brew all the dew of ’the dawn, For the sight and the wonder of men; Half-dreaming, we muse as we glide Where the strangest of stories is true, A magical journey we ride As we paddle our slim canoe. And a melody comes to the lip, A song of old marvels and dreams, We sway to the song as we dip Our blades in the moonlight that streams. We are pilgrims on argosy bent, With a shipload of elves for a crew; We’re adrift on a sea of content ’As we paddle our slim canoe. —Berten Braley. <s> <s> Realisation. Of the fabric of filmy dreams, Dear, "I wrought in the days gone by, And I built me a land whose golden strand Lay under a shining sky; None.knew the road to that far abode Save only my dreams and I. There , were paths for my every whim, Dear,— Hills for the ,boldest view,— For humbler moods the valley roads To deeds that I meant to do : And byways fair found vistas rare All fashioned of hopes come true;

There came a maid to my dreams, Dear, One time as I wandered wide, And if scarcely seemed that I could have dreamed That we wandered side by side; For hand in hand we roamed the land, And the world was glorified. That realm is fading away, Dear, Its heights I can scarce define; The winding road to the far abode Is a tangle of weed and vine. Yet—wondrous thing!—tho’ the dreams took wing. Her hand still rests in mine. —Burgess Johnson, <t> <s■ The Sphinx. At the age of about twenty—presumably before the seeds of degeneracy had had time to sprout and bear their bittor fruit—Oscar Wilde wrote a poem, "The Sphinx.” One is reminded by it of Poe’* “Raven,” though the metrical effect is entirely different and there is no hint of imitation in-Wilde’s development of his theme. We reprint but a fraction of the poem, choosing some of the first Cm! last stanzas: In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom. Inviolate and immobile, she does not rise, she does not stir, For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel. Red follows gray across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow, But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there. Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all the while this curious caff Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with gold.

Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the tawny-throat of her •• Flutters the soft and silky fur or.ripples to her pointed ears. Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so statuesque! Come forth, you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half animal! Come forth, my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put your head upon my knee! And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the Lynx! And let me touch those curving claws of yellow ivory and grasp The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet paws! Why are you tarrying! Get hence! I weary of your sullen ways, I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence. Your horrible ami heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp, And on my brow I feel the damp ami dreadful dews of night and death. Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake, Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic tunes. Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your black throat is like the hole Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries. Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying through the Western gate! Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver ears! What songless, tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night, k And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter in? -

Are there not others more aoeureetf, whiter with leprosies than 1? Are Abana and Pharphar dry that y*ffi come here to slake your thirst! See, . the dawn shivers round the grey giltrdialled towers, and the rain Streams down each diainoned pane and blurs with tears the wannish day. What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with uncouth gestures and unclean, Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a student’s cell! Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous animal, get hence! You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not be. You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul dreams of sensual life, And Aty? with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing I am. False'Fphin.x! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his oar, —- Waits for my coin. Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix, Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with wearied eyes, And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in vain. —Oscar Wilde. •®> <•> A Lover. First her eyes!-—I can’t express All the wonder of her eyes; Truth and trust and tenderness Dwell there ever, vernal-wise. Next her smile! — I cannot tell All the marvel of her smile; 'Tis a golden miracle . To enrapture and beguile. Then her voice!—l cannot say What most eharnts me in her voice; Melody to tranee the day. Notes to bid the night rejoice. Last her heart!—and when 1 think That it quickens but for me, I am mute upon tho brink Of amaze —and ecstasy.

—Clinton Scollard.