Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 20, 24 May 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

Wootton Hill in Winter Crouching before the bitter North, As if in anger driven forth, A caravan against the sky, The trees along the hill go by— Tall hooded pine andemuffled fir, Larches clad in gossamer, Oaks that mighty burdens bear, Thorns that limping dwarfs appear A refuge do they' find at last, And all their terrors from them cast, And straighten their strong backs, and sigh. And stand upright against the sky. So do they move again, again, Like an. old song with a refrain, Like water curling round a stone, Or like my thoughts when I'm alone. —Sylvia Lyn, in the London Athenaeum.

Blackberries The plough-boy takes his holiday, And makes the laughing valleys ring; His tangled hair is wet with mist; His heart is like a winged thing.

His faith, unfelt, wild pulses stirs: He asks no argument for mirth; But sings because the Earth is full, And laughs, and digs his heels in earth.

For him the ripening chestnuts fall; And moisture-beaded blackberries Upon their nodding sprays prepare Dark wine to spurt on lips like his.

He reads no prophecy of death Or sorrow in the dropping leaves; But takes the golden glory in With ready senses, and believes .

For all the wisdom in the world There is no remedy but youth , Death is a barefaced lie to boys, And taste of blackberries'is truth! —Frank Kendon, in The Challenge, London.

The Old Altar in Altamuskin The hills above are high, the glen is deep; A singing brooklet lulls the glen to sleep A holy glen: for Mass was offered there When churches, but not worshippers, were rare.

Churches and schools were luxuries allowed But seldom to our -sires by tyrants proud; No wonder then, our fathers deemed it good To raise an altar in this solitude.

’Twas a cold place for Mass in this cold clime, And yet , a meet place in the penal time; The lone hills sheltered it from storms unkind And from worse tyrants than the winter wind.

A quaint old chapel this! —a muddy floor And heaven the only roof that arched it o’er ; Its walls—green slopes that leaned against the land: A House of God raised up by God’s own. Hand.

Gaze we in fancy on a scene sublime — A Sabbath morning in the winter time Poor toil-worn peasants from the hills around, Kneeling on “knee-stones” on the snow-clad ground.

They have no heating apparatus there or warm nor costly are the clothes they wear Naught save the fire of Faith is there to warm Hearts raised to God, oblivious of the storm.

• • • • ••< H Passed has that scene as earthly scenes all pass No throng is there to-day, no priest, no Mass; But the calm hills still guard the holy nook, And still unwearied goes the singing brook. —Michael Mullin, in the Irish Independent.

Every Time 1 See a Ship When I think of all the great ships That have gone down at sea To lie along the bottom sands Till time shall cease to be, With captains in their cabins And slaves that sleep in rows, And dainty, skeleton ladies In ruffs and furbelows — Oh, then I. wish the ocean Was a thing that had not been Because of all the lives and ships That have been lost therein. Yet every time I see a ship Go dwindling far to sea, In spite of all its deaths I'm glad For its waters rolling free, Where men may learn that courage Is more than precious stones, That the soul is more, forever, Than its house of flesh and bones: For the glory of the Greatened Man That its wars and waves have built, I am glad God poured the ocean Like a thing the sky has spilt! Harry Kemp, in the Saturday Evening Post.

Facts Figure this out: There was a man who loved horses, And dogs with big brown eyes, And cold winds over the fields in autumn; And between riding upwind and stroking a dog's head in the firelight He found time to get married, i And have three children, And grow old with deep wrinkles under his eyes. And there was a man who smoked long pipes, * Sitting in his study by an oil lamp, Turning old yellow pages And brushing the dust from his knees; And between Plato and Robert Browning He found time to get married, "And have three children, , And grow old with deep wrinkles under his eyes. • - To-night the dead leaves "scratch on a pair of tomb stones, And only a wry-faced moon hears the wind talking, Talking about dogs and horses, - Talking about Plato and Robert Browning. '»■ —William A. Norris, in The Measure.