Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 18, 10 May 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

Nature-faking Up-to-date “I must have a little money For my simple pleasures,” Sighed the city poet, In his garret. He bought for a penny A book of botany, And began to write. He announced, by way of introduction. That spring was coming, And then hunted in the index, Found a long name, Looked at the picture of it, And said it was sure to blossom soon. They called him a Nature Poet; “Wordsworth,” they said, “With a touch of John Clare; Or Ledwidge, with a hint Of W. H. Davies.” (Reviewers are so learned.) He made twenty-three shillings, Indulged in his simple pleasures, And died of Russian tea In a filthy cabaret. The author of the book of botany Turned in his grave Twice. • — London Sundry Express.

Turf Fires Where glows the Irish hearth, with peat There lives a subtle spell— The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat, The moorland odors tell. Of white roads winding by the edge Of bare, untamed land, Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge Runs wide on either hand. To cottage lights that lure you in From rainy Western skies; And by the friendly, glow within Of simple talk, and wise. And tales of magic, love or arms From days when princes met To listen to the lay that charms The Connacht peasant yet. There honor shines through passions dire. There beauty blends with mirth, Wild hearts, ye never did aspire Wholly for things of earth I Cold, cold this thousand yearsyet still On many a time-stained page Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will, Burn on from age to age. And still around the fires of peat . Live on the ancient days; There still deriving lips repeat The old and deathless lays. 7 And when the wavering wreaths ascend Blue in the. evening air, The soul of Ireland seems to bend Above her children there. —T. W. Rolleston, in the Cork Examiner.

The Dying Magdalene I have no gift to give my King, Yet, lovingly, He bids me come. Lost are the treasures I would bring, I have no gift to give my King. Laden the saints who pass me sing, Empty my soul, my heart is dumb; I have no gift to give my dying, Yet lovingly He bids me come. He raises me before the throng; He presses me against His heart. My tears, my tears tell all my wrong; He raises me before the throng. “My child,” He saith, “the way was long To arms that ill not let thee part.” He raises me before the throng; He— presses meagainst —His heart. —Wm. MacDermott, in the Irish Independent.. *F St. Francis of Assisi He lingered by a sparrow dead Outside the city gate; “Commend me to our "Sister Death And say she tarries late.” “Ah, gentle brother! when her hand Was kindly on thee laid” — He strewed the red leaves once and twice — “Perchance thou wast afraid.” He kneeled and signed the cross above The body where it lay; “Christ keep thee safe, as He has kept His servant to this day! “The birds that haunt with music round Our Mother Mary’s throne, While I go still on pilgrimage, Receive thee as their own.” He sighed and passed upon his way With weary feet unshod; “Thou fliest before me, little soul, Already winged, to God.” —Amy Clarke, in the New Witness. Mere Maronniere The snow is on the sea-board Alps That on the coast keep guard ; The demon mistral flays .and scalps The trees and harries hard, The leaves of planes in golden rains Along the boulevard. From pippin-cheeks beside her stove Mere Maronniere looks down Along the gusty plane-tree grove That casts its golden crown About the feet of those that meet Within the ancient town. Ancient is she, and yearly there Beside her stove she sits, The pippin-faced Mere Maronniere That roasts her nuts and knits, And earns a sou from me and you, And warms her five old wits. Sometimes upon her lap will go Her thread and knitting-stick And then she’ll pray with, lips most slow But fingers very quick, To count her beadsa task that needs Divine arithmetic. There be 'who at her picture laugh, And nod and wink and stare But fair befall her epitaph When she’s no. longer there— - • \ A song that’s writ, a shawl that’s knit, , : A rosary of pray’r. . - : Wilfrid Thorley, in the-London. Saturday _ Review.