Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 4, 24 July 1912, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Desiderium. /■qY IT there forever, dear, and lean In marble as in fleeting flesh. Above the tall gray reeds tha>t screen The river when the breeze is fresh; Forever let the morning light Stream down that forehead broad and white, And round that eheek for my delight. Already that flushed moment grows So elark, so distant; through the ranks Of scented reed the river flows Still murmuring to its willowy banks; But we can never hope to share Again that rapture fond and rare, Unless you turn immortal there. There is no other way to hold These webs of mingled joy and pain; Like gossamer their threads enfold Tlie journeying heart without a strain; Then break, and pass in cloud or dew, And while the ecstatic soul goes through Are withered in the parching blue. Hold, Time, a little while thy glass, And, Youth, fold up those peacock wings! More rapture fills the years that pass Than any hope the future brings* Some for to-morrow rashly pray, And some desire to hold to-day, But I am sick for yesterday. Since yesterday the hills were blue That ehall be gray for evermore, And the fair sunset was shot through With colour never seen before! Tyrannic love smiled yesterday, And lost the terror of his sway, But is a god .again to-day’. Ah! who will give us back the past? Ah! woe, that youth should love to be Like this swift Thames that spee.ds so fast. And is so fain to find the sea—

That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep, These creeks down which blown blossoms creep, For breakers of the homeless deep. Then .sit forever, dear, in stone, As when you turned with half a smile, And I will haunt this islet lone, And with a dream my tears beguile; And in my reverie forget That stars and suns were made to set, That love grows old, or eyes are wet. —Edmund W. Gosse. © © © Jim Brown, Pessimist. Jim Brown says, says he to me: Life aint what it used to be, Everybody’s money mad, Things are goin’ to the bad, Polities is shameful low’, Preachers ain’t as good somehow As they were when we was young, Even gospel hymns ain’t sung As they ought to be, say Jim—• Least that’s how it seems to him.

Jim Brown says, says he, that men All were honester back then; Merchants all were kinder, too; Trusted more than what they do; Women didn’t nag the way Most of ’em take on to-day. Children, he can recollect, Paid their parents more respect, Everything is worse, says he, Than it was in ’eighty-three.

Jim hangs round th’ corner store, a Hasn’t worked for months an’ more; From the last job where he hired Out of work he soon was fired. Mrs. Jim, though, sews an’ sews, Just to keep her kids in clo’es; It's ’bout all that she can do T’ buy shoes an’ feed ’em, too; Since Jim spends his time in fretting ’Bout how bad the world is getting.

The Blast Furnaces. Brooding and grim. Sullen beneath its sooty , skies, Drugged with the fumes of ga.s ami coke, The sprawling, blackened city lies Wrapped in its pall of smoke. The darkness falls, but mark you, still Against the sky a crimson light. Where, on the crest of yonder hill, Our watch-fires pierce the night.

We never sleep. Fire is our life—a life that came And passes with its molten breath. Wo may not still that leaping flame; We dare not sleep—’tis death, More! Give us more! Unceasing boil The fires within us—feed us, then! Give us the blood and sweat and toil Give us the lives of men

In Babylon Long years ago, a god of flame, Dread Moloch, took his daily toll. This fire within us is the same That once was Molech’s soulNay, curse us not; for. good or ill, Ours is the task, but not the plan. The toil we waste, the men we kill Concern us not. We serve the will Of him who iriade us—Man. —Deems Taylor. © © © Demand. Tell me no more to-morrow will be fair, For youth is fleet. Give me my pleasure now, the rose to wear, While life is sweet! Tell me no more to morrow will be glad—-To-day is long. Give me my rapture now, my heart is sad, I need the song! Tell me no more to-morrow will be gay— The shadow lies From these bleak winters far away— Beyond sunrise! Tell me no more to-morrow will be dear— I only pray One touch of passion while it lies so near. Today, to-day! —Leolyn Louise Everett.

Renotopsis. So love that when thy summons eomes to join The unsuccessful caravan which moves To that inevitable goal where each shall file A divorce suit in the generous Rene Courts, Thou go not with the feeling of despair, As one who’s made a mess of it; but, sustained By an unfaltering affinity, conduct thyself Like one who, when the suit is done, expects, To come right baek and do the wbolo thing once more. © © © Old Love Letters. I cast them wholesale to the flames And watch them writhe and turn, Like living, tortured things they yiell Their secrets as they burn. “ 1 love you”—in handwriting bold, .But whether Jack’s or Ned’s, For life of me I cannot tell— Both were such young hot-heads! “My Darling’s”—-two or three blaze out- “ Devotedly your Jim”—■ Dear me! How very much in love I thought I was with him! Not all. Remain some letters which Shall have their-pyre apart; Tiie others meant just—■‘Episodes, But these cost me a heart! © © © Dilemma. Of men there are but classes two, A diagram I’ll show to you: The kind you do not dare to know, The kind you do not care to know, The shocking fascinating kind With ways of passion swift and blind; 'And those, unknown to beauty’s lores, Correct, good-hearted, deadly bores. The' wicked ones who madly woo Are ever chhrming —never true; And never cruel, wild or fast The stupid ones we wed at last ! Leolyn Louise Everett,