Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 8, 22 February 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

My Village A little hill with bulbuls gay From cashew-trees warbling all day; A gentle stream, a paddy field Twice a year all like a garden tilled; And little huts, in groves of palm, With peasant folk content and calm; And once these things were all to me, — Alas, they ne'er again can be! ■Joseph Furtado, in Lays of Goa and Lyrics of a Goan. The Return A sun-sweet day in the sundown time Where the great hills dip to the dusking dale, And no sound breaking the silent climb But a lonely wheeling curlew's wail. And the far bird's scream, and the glittering shine Of a star on the far dim eastern line Bring back far days and a dream once mine Where tho great hills dip to the dale. ,-■ For the world-call came even here, even here Where the great hills dip to the dusking dale And the old road laughed at a young heart's fear And.lured young feet to its wonder-trail. Thomas Moult, in the Literary Digest. Amen "He shall rise up at the voice of a bird." — Ecclesiastes. Who then, is "he"? Dante, Keats, Shakespeare, Milton, Shelley; all Rose in their greatness at the shrill decrees The little, rousing, inarticulate call. For they stood up At the bird-voice, of lark, of nightingale, Drank poems from that throat as from a cup. Over the great world's notes did these prevail. And not alone The sacred poets woke. In listening man, Woman, and child a poet stirs unknown, Throughout the Mays of birds since Mays began. He rose, he heard — Our father, our Saint Peter, in his tears — The crowing, twice, of the prophetic bird, The saddest cock-crow of our human years. —Alice Meynell, in the London Mercury. Desert Sage My feet are treading the city streets, But my heart Is far astray, Over the distant desert hills Where the sage grows cool and grey. Where the scent of the sage is keen and sweet That flies on the wind away. I hear the noise of the busy town And the crowds that pass me by; . But my thoughts are away to the distant hills As wild birds homeward fly. I am one with the hills and the fragrant sage, The wind, and the autumn sky. And ever the western winds do blow, From the Land of. Yesterday, , , Where the silvery plumes of desert sage - Fragrantly bend and sway; . -.- . (Oh, my feet are treading the city streets But my heart is . far away!) • '. ','-.-. —Edith Osborne, in the Lyrie West.

The Valley of Tears There's a. little Irish village in the shadow of the hill, Where the folded valley turns towards the sea; The wind is never weary there, the waves are never still, And there I dwell and sorrow dwells with me. When all the folk are sleeping and the silver finger'd moon Draws ghostly shadow pictures on my blind, I lie and chide the loit'ring dawn and cry, "Come soon, ah soon, That I may put my sorrow out of mind!" And when the village wakens and I go into the street, And see the children playing in the sun, And scent the far-off heather and the near sweet smell of peat, I cry aloud: "Would God the dav wore done!" The golden sun is scattered on the slowly lifting wave, The shining pools are flooded by '•he tide, And on the distant hillside the whin's as bright and brave As o'er it was before my lover died. There's a littlte Irish village in the shadow of the hill, Where the folded valley turns towards the sea; The wind is never weary there, the waves are never still, And there I dwell and sorrow dwells with me. —Helen Lanyon, in the Irish World. Love's Arithmetic You often ask me, love, how much I love you, Bidding my fancy find An answer to your mind; I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you," You shake your head and say, "Many and bright are they, But that is not enough." Again I try: "If all the leaves on all the trees Were counted over, And all the waves on all the seas, More times your lover, Tea! more than twice ten thousand times am I." " 'Tis not enough," again you make reply. "How many blades of grass," one day I said, "Are there from here to China? haw many bees Have gathered honey through the centuries? Tell me how many roses have bloomed led Since the first rose till this rose in your hair? How many butterflies are born each year? How many raindrops are there in a shower? How many kisses, darling, in an hour?" Thereat you smiled and shook your golden head; "Ah!! not enough!" you said. Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power To tell how much, how many ways, my love; Unnumbered are its ways even as all these, Nor any depth so deep, nor height above, May match therewith of any stars or seas." "I would hear more," you smiled . . . Then, love," I said, "This will I do: unbind me all this gold Too heavy for your head, And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread, And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ." "As much as that!" you said - "Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak, To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . .". Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed, Fell loose adown each cheek, Hiding you from me; I began my task. 'Twill last our lives," you said. : f V' . *:-v:L:'. ■''.'■- \ : 3>"-' .;■ 1 :;';,;.? % —Richard LeGalliennb.