Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 4, 24 January 1912, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

The Sea. zryHE was rich and of high degree; VjZ A poor and unknown artist lie. 7(7) “Paint me,” she said, "a view of the sea.” So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphrodite arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while, Into its countless-dimpled smile. “What a poky, stupid picture,” said she: “I don’t believe he can paint the sea!” Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, Wild cries, and writhing tongues of foam, A towering, mighty fastness-rock. In its sides, above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. “What a disagreeable daub!” said she; “Why, it isn’t anything like the sea.” Then he painted a stretch of hot, brown sand. With a big hotel on either hand And a handsome pavilion for the band—Not a sign of the water to be seen Except one faint little streak of green. “What a perfectly exquisite picture!” said she; “ft’s the very image of the sea!” —Eva L. Ogden. © © © Witli Apologies to H.W.L. This was the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Planed and veneered, in coats of shellac and new varnish, Stand like Chippendale “highboys,” with dainty lingerie coverlets; Stand—full of buckshot (for wormholes), •with drawers 'brass-handled and polished. Loud, from the long-distance telephone, the deep-voiced, persistent dealer Calls in accents decisive after the monthly installment. B. K. Hart, in “Puck.”

A Vindication. They eall me cold! A bad and bold Old Bachelor, they say. Alack-a-day And likewise woe! They do not know. A woman-hater I, Misogynist, Who say a woman never would be missed! By all the gods of old! Me! Cold! Why, say, If. I’d my way To-morrow’s paper’d advertise my bliss In terms like this: “Married: By Rev. Bishop Jones, Last night at eight, George Henry Bones, To Jennie Dobbs and Maud Kazoo, And Helen Winks, and Polly too; To Mary Barnes and Annie Smith, To Florence Green and Fairy Frith, To Birdie Wilkins, Sallie Brothers, And six or seven lovely others.” ; Me! Cold! Misogynist both bad and bold! Whatever else I am, that’s what I’m not! t Great Scott! The truth, if you would know, the rein that checks, In short, is this: I love the whole sweet blooming sex! © © © To Rudyard Kipling. Rudward, dear Rudyard,, we’re terribly grieved with you, Quite disappointed and utterly peeved with you. ' ' Why, if you happened to hate Reciprocity, Need you assail us with bitter verbosity, Taunt and opprobium, jeer and indignity—

Us, who were conscious of only benignity? Think of the chill in the innermost groove of us When we reflect that you do not approve of us! — How we must agonise, “What’s the excuse for us? Rudyard implies that he hasn’t much use for us!” Rudyard, dear Rudyard, oh where is your gratitude? When you were ill in our pestilent latitude Didn’t we worry our eurlyloeks gray for you? Didn’t we hope for you, didn’t we pray for you? Haven’t we stood for your callow cocksureishness? Haven’t we borr.3 with your latter-day boorishness ? Haven’t we paid you an adequate royalty? Haven’t we read with inflexible loyalty Even your poorest and weakest nonsensit ies? Yes, —and our dark, homicidal propensities That you so recently published a skit about, Maybe we learned them from heroes you’ve writ about! • Rudyard, the tumult and shouting befuddle you; Don’t let delusions imperial muddle you. Twist not the tails of us, seorn not the breed of us; England, your England is like to have need of us; Wave not the flag that the sun can’t descend upon, Ours is the friendship she’ll have to depend upon. Don’t be unneighbourly; come back and joke with ns; Laugh at our faults while you sit down and smoke with us. Healed of this Tory-eum-.Tingo insanity. Rise up and sing of the Braver Humanity! Authur Guiterman in N.Y. “Life.”

Irrexueabilis Un da. 1 sit and wat-: h the weary, weeping weather, The cLusterhig r..in-drops thicken on the pane; ■I hear the waters anl the wind complain O for the years when we were young together. The dripping branches and the drenched dark heather. The low gray clouds that shroud thq lonely Ijeight, Weigh on my heart that once had fbliiid them light. O for the years when we were young together. Time, the implacable, has us in his tether, And Memory’s self turns traitor —I when I seek Iler hoard of golden lore she will not speak O for the years when we were young together. Though still may fall a tide of halcyon weather With sun to gild such treasures remain, ‘What time has taken he can not givij • again—• O for the years when we were young , together. —Rosamund Marriott Watsoik- © © © An Autumn Pastel. The wind is chill, The wild geese whiz, The vaudeville Is doing biz. The moving van Is on the spot: The chestnut man Has got ent hot. The frost first nips; The bare boughs flap. The rosebud lips Commence to chap. The eider press , Goes all the day. This ends we guess, Our roundelay. ; —“Kansas City