Verse Old and New.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVIII, Issue 11, 11 September 1912, Page 71

Verse Old and New.

Afar. elf, leagues of tossing, tumbled sea 1 loved so very dear — You take my joy away from me —■ Aly love is far from here! Oh leagues of shining, changing blue, So wonderful and deep— Bear out upon the heart of you I'he memory I keep. On all the little, crested waves, That rise and fall and break, On all tin' foam that sea beach loves, My whispered message take! In every curved, tinted shell, In each entangled weed, The passion of my yearning tell That be alone may read. Upon the gleaming, silver strand He treads so far away— As clear as written by my hand, ’rhe bulging of to-day! That all the breakers white that leap Open the rocky shore Alay tell him that alone 1 weep And Jove him evermore. Oh. winds that blow; oil. stars th it shine, Illi, restless, ceaseless sea, Take, take this aching heart of mine To him who waits for me! —Leolyn Louise Everett. >5 @ -3 1 Slug the Battle. ] sing the song of the great clean guns that belch forth death at will. “Ab, but the wailing mothers, the lifeless forms and still!” 1 sing the song of the billowing Hags, the bugles that cry before. "Ah. but the skeletons Happing rags, the lips that speak no more!”

I sing the cla,sh of bayonets, of sabres that Hash and cleave. "And wilt thou sing the maimed ones, too, that go with pinned-up sleeve?” I sing acclaimed generals that bring the victory home. " Ah, but the broken bodies that drip like honeycomb!” I sing of hosts triumphant, long ranks of marching men. “And wilt thou sing the shadowy hosts that never march again'*’ • —Harry Kemp. © © © Et Ego in Arcadia. Where are the. loves of yesterday? Sad and sweet is the old refrain; Horace .sang of it half in 'play; Villon, in measures that throb with pain ;’ Dife at the best is a tangled skein, We are the tools of time and chance. Vet once on a time we lived in Spain. And every heart has its old romance. Where are the lovers of yesterday? Ah, for an hour of youth again— Youth that was short as a month of May, Youth with its pulsing blood and brain ; Too soon came autumn with mist ami rain. Too brief the dream, too short the dance; Vet on?e on a time we lived in Spain. And every heart has its old romance. Where are the loves of yesterday? Here is a note with a yellow stain, And here in a book a withered spray Of sweet alyssum for years has lain. But why regret? All things must wane, Life's sweetest note, love's fondest glance; „ Yet once on a time we lived in Spain, And every heart has its old romance. - By .John Northern Hilliard.

The Gray Streets of London. The gray streets of London are grayer than the stone—• The gray streets of London, where I must walk my lone; The stony city pavements are hard to tread, alas! My heart and feet are aching for the Irish grass. Far down the winding boreen the grass is like silk, The wind is sweet as honey, the hedges white as milk, Gray dust ami grayer houses are here, and skies like brass. Ihe lark is singing, soaring o’er tin"* Irish %rass. 'I he gray streets of London stretch out a thousand mile—- <) dreary walls and windows, and never a song or smile! Heavy with money-get ting, the s.ad gray people pass. There's gobi in drifts and shallows in the Irish grass. God built the pleasant mountains and blessed the fertile plain; But in the sad. gray London, God knows I go in pain. <) brow n as any amber, .and clear as any glass, The streams my heart hears calling from the Irish grass. The grey streets of London, they say, arc paved with gold ; I'd rather have the cowslips that two small hands could hold. I'd give the yellow money the foolish folk amass For the dew that's grev as silver on the Irish grass. 1 think that I'll he going before I die of grief; The wind from o'er the mountains will give my heart relief, I'he cuckoo's calling sweetly calling in dreams, alas! “Gome home, come home, aeuslda, to the Irish grass.” -By Katharine Tynan,

The Starling. “ I can't got out,” said the starling. - Sterne's “Sentimental Journey.’’ Forever (he impenetrable wall Of self coniines my poor rebellious soul, I. never see the towering while ulouds roll Before a sturdy wind, save through the small Barred window of my jail. I live a thrall. With all my outer life a clipped, square hole. Rectangular: a fraction of a s.roll I nwiuind and winding like a worsted ball. My thoughts are grown uneager and depressed Through being always mine: my fancy's wings Are moulted, ami the leathers blown away. J weary for desires never guessed, For alien passions, strange* imaginings, To be some other person for a day. —Amy Lowell. © © © Sir Walter Raleigh'? Farewell* to His Wife. My dear, it is not parting that r.c lace: Dm hearts, fast joined through years of wedded love No tyrant's harsh decree, nor death's <lisgraee (‘an from their sweet communion ever move; For thou wert with me in those nights when <lead Ghost-lighted waters lappud my vessel round And when the T'ldorado luring lied Wraith like me o'er the fetid ground Of vast and breathless forest, d(‘moiigrown. Thy heart was with mt* ami thy spirit blessed. So now when toil ami prison 1 have down Still shall I lost* thee ami thou wilt b«* near? Yea. though all time jolt o'er us sphere on sphere ‘ still shall I feel thy arms and lips •lose pressed. -William Bakewell Wharton.