Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 30, 2 August 1923, Page 28

Selected Poetry

Convention The snow is lying very deep, My house is sheltered from the blast, 1 hear each muffled step outside, I hear each voice go past. Blit I’ll not venture in the drift Out of this bright security, Till enough footsteps tread it down To make a path for me. —Agnes Lee, in Faces and Open Doors. V New England Shutters bang in the wind outside, Cobwebs hang from the mildewed walls; Stale, damp mould in the lifeless cold; Doors flung wide to the darkened halls. Love and strength of the new, keen race Lie full length where the weeds grow high; All things swept to the past except This ruined place the wind roars by. Blank disaster of empty windows; Broken plaster strewn on the floor; ~v. Darkness spills from the wild, bleak hills, And the winter wind blows under the door. Robert Silliman Hillyer, in the Forum. A Sea Fantasy Oh, to dash through silvery spray, swim far out to sea, Fight the strong rush of the surging, lashing, free ! Sniff the salt tang in the air, hear the breakers roar, See them arching flecked with foam rumbling toward the shore! Oh, tb breast the icy surf, rise on wave-crests high, •Watch the glinting gulls skim low, catch their peevish cry ! Forge ahead through choppy swells, taste the bitter brine, Feel the clean, refreshing breeze, hear its doleful whine! Hark to distant buoy-bells through the sea’s loud wail; Tossed on white-capped waves afar, glimpse a wind-filled sail; Dive beneath the surface fret, peer through jade-green blur, Snatch a tinted, glistening shell, peaceful sands bestir ; Come up breathless, laughing, gay, leave the tranquil deep, Tangled in seaweed and foam through the breakers leap! ?] ■ Oh, to sport in summer seas, swim far out from shore! Battle with the winds and tide, hear the breakers roar ! Feel the stinging slap of waves in the rough, wild sea.; Plunge through wind-blown, hissing spray, breathless, joyous, free! — Selma Morse, in the London Sunday Times. 9 Inscription to My Mother To you I owe The blood of a Gael, The laughter I wear As a coat of mail. , To you I owe My gift of scorn. • That I took from you . ’ ' In the hour I was born. To you I owe The. gift of belief, ‘ Though the credo I utter Has brought you grief. To you I owe My songs, each one, For you hushed with music • Your little son. , ' Theodore Maynard, in Current Opinion.

A Thrush Before Dawn Darkling, deliberate, what sings This wonderful one, alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece, Dearer than Italy, untold Delight, and freshness centuries old? And first first-loves, a multitude The exaltation of their pain; Ancestral childhood long renewed ; And midnights of invisible rain; And gardens, gardens, night and day, Gardens and childhood all the way. —Alice Meynell. House-Bound Men who love houses and the quiet hearth, What do they know of ships that go to sea? They have not looked at tall spars wistfully, Or marked the flight of seabirds from the earth. Men who love streets and towns, what do they know Of silver beauty blown across the night? Only the look of plum-trees trembling white, Only the scent of orchards when they blow. Their ears arc deaf to waves along the shore They never stand at dawn upon a quay; Their feet are never vagrant to explore, Nor is the tide in what they say or see. No sight of water wounds them like a dart. Nor does an anchor weigh upon their heart. —Harold Vinal, in the Pictorial Review. V Poppy Day “Pushin’ up the daisies, Bill, Shovin’ up the blooms, Feedin’ poppies on a hill, From our peaceful tombs.” Mac an’ me was buddies then, Fightin’ over there— Smilin’ Mac-a-jokin’ when Grim death was in the air. We’d jest been a wondering What we’d likely do, Cornin’ home and everything, When the war w r as through. “Pushin’ up the daisies, Bill — Reckon that’ll be —” (Mac he smiled .and rolled a pill) “Goin’ home fer mel” “Member, Bill, that poppy bud Where poor old Lem lay dead ? Why, Bill, he’ll never mind the mud, With poppies overhead. “Ain’t as if we’d croak in vain When we’re gone, you bet, Folks’ll be at peace again• People won’t forget!? Poor old Mac he’ll never mind, Lyin’ with the brave, Blood-red poppies in the wind, Noddin’ on his grave. Poppies growin’ from his heart — . ? . Seems like it’s my own , Them poppy roots will bust apart Since old Mac is gone. Folks ain’t all fergot, I guess, And some will shed a tear Red poppies ain’t forgetfulness, And poppy day is here. v , *~S. Omar Barker, in the New Mexican.