Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 2, 10 July 1912, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

The of the Years, f OVV may we know you, year of all ? You eome, as others come, 1 / Night-sandaled, and your flying / feet Set bells aswing in every street —< But you are dumb. We run, unwearied travellers Still on the upward slope Of life, to take your strong young hand, To search, to dare, to understand— Pilgrims of hope. You lead us on, you lead us up; We seek your Avatar By fords of faith, the pass of tears, Peaks of delight—O year of years, You take us far! And then you go. We hear your voice, We know your name at last .... You were the Future that we sought, Arid all the years may bring us naught But you, the Past. V. 11. Friedlander. €><?><?> An Invitation. Unless you eome while still the world is green, A place of birds and the blue dreaming sea, In vain has all the singing summer been, Unless you come and share it all with me. Ah! come, ere August flames its heart , away, Ere, like a golden widow, autumn goes Across the woodland sad with thoughts of May, An aster in her bosom for a rose. Unless you eome, who knows but you a,l ‘l I» Another year, may seek ourselves in vain;

For flowers live on, yet each October die, But human faces —do they bloom again? —Richard Le Gallienne. <s><s>♦ The Burnt Field. Fire in this field has wasted all I Never a blossom, a blade of grass, Survived the ruin—but let that pass; Now the good earth heeds the new Spring’s call. A magic touch —and the black grows green (How could the burnt clod guess this hour!) Up starts the clover, the bee in its flower, And never least trace of the old wrack seen! Fire in this field . . .and my heart the field! How could I know, in that fiery bath, That the Spring would come, despite all scath — That the seeds of joy lay safe concealed! Edith M. Thomas. S> 4> <s> History. “Past is the past.” But no, it is not past; In us, in us, it quickens, wants, aspires; And on our hearts the unknown Dead have cast The hungers and the thirst of their desires. Unknown the pangs, the peace we too prepare! 'What shakes this bosom shall reverberate •> Through ages uneoirceived; but in dark lair The unguessed, unhoped, undreaded issues wait.

Our pregnant acts are all unprophesied, We dream sublime conclusions; destine, plan, ‘ Build and unbuild; yet turn no jot aside The something infinite that moves in man. We write The End where fate has scarce begun; ' And no man knows the thing that he has done. Laurence Binyon. <S> <s> <§> Communion. Who said the night was blind ? Lo, it can surely find My lover’s heart ! When all the hours of light I could not read it right So far apart 1 Who said the night was still ? It is the throb and thrill Of ecstasy ! quiet streets How loud your passion beats Your thought of me ! Who said the night was cold t It has a warmth untold By garish day, It teaches ev f ry hour Your love’s great, wondrous ptfW’r So far away 1 Leolyn Louise Everett. Mirth Unending. Oh, wherefore should a mortal sigh And vow that life is’ full of care? Each moment that goes swiftly by Is sure to bring a laugh somewhere; And the supply is ever new Ami louder grows the note of cheer; The clothes that Fashion brings to view Are getting funnier every year. These hats and shoes-and all the rest Of tile attire that meets our gaze We’ll greet with wild hilarious zest As now we jest of other days. The present price-tag may exert A certain influence-severe, But look ahead for laughs alert; Our clothes get funnier every ydt

Who is it always finds fault with the play And says it’s a pity, alas! That the theatre yes,'sir! has seen its best day? Why, the man who goes in on a pass. Who is it always picks flaws in tiiri Church And scoffs at its present estate? "And where is the church member fref from a sm.ixuh?”. •Why, the man who puts least in th* plate. Who is it who’s ready to knife his own town And talk of the much that it lacks? “We need public spirit; no wonder we’re down”? Why, the fellow who dodges his tax. Who is it who rails at the Government most, And calls it “a deuce of a note” That we have to be ruled by a dishonest host ? Why, the insect that won’t even vote. —Walter G. Doty. ❖ <s>■«> Where My Treasure Is. Lord of the living, when my name is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen sun; Suffer my sight to dim upon some scene Of thy good green. Let my last pillow be the earth I lovei With fair.infinity of blue above; And fleeting, purple shadow' of a cloud My only shroud. A little lark, above the Morning Star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afarji The muffled-musie of a lone sheep-be’l Shall be my knell. Ami where stone heroes trod the moor of old, Where bygone wolf howled round a' granite fold, Hide Thou, beneath ‘the heather’s newborn light, My endless night.