Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 8, 21 February 1924, Page 28

Selected Poetry

Hymn of St. Ephrem, the Syrian (For the N.Z. Tablet.) Unveil herself; no longer Hiding her blushing face; But thanking Thee, Who freed her From ruin and disgrace. Yea, may she hear the welcome Of perfect peace, for I Have paid the debt entirely Of her insolvency. The serpent, who seduced her, Lies crushed beneath Thy foot, 0 Tree of Life, that grewest, Upspringing, from My root. The flaming sword and Angels Thou hast from Eden’s door Withdrawn, that Father Adam Might enter in once more. Let him and hapless Eva For refuge fly to Thee, • Beneath Thy spreading branches, And pluck Thy Fruit from Me. Now let those mouths be sweetened By This, Which here I bold, Which by the fruit forbidden Embittered were of old. The slaves, that out of Eden Were thrust, may now again The blessings, that were forfeit, Through Thee once more obtain. By Thee Thyself with vesture Of Light may be arrayed, No longer stripped and naked, But glad and unafraid. Translated by F. G. M. Tea * The Hill Born I have grown weary of this languid land; Sick of the low horizon line that flows Like a great sombre river; sick to death Of rose and laurel, eucalyptus, palm, Brooding in lavish sweetness. lam mad For the harsh glory of my own far hills, For the stern mascluinity of home. They do not have sunrise or sunset here; Rather the shameful day slinks cowering in Over gray waste of waters and gray land, Under a muted, melancholy sky, And never does it burn away in one Swift, splendid burst of sanctifying flame As day once did, but shambles grayly past Under the mantle of the leper fog,. To the dull stupor of a starless night. 0 God ! —for splendid spaces in this dawn For glimmering vastnessfor the wind that swings Tumultuously in from starry distances — For the white beauty of a hill horizon — For the tempestuous magic of a sky Torn into shreds of —and for the hush Of aspen leaves black on an amber heaven For all the mighty pageantries of day That made life epic large, I am athirst. They have been music in my memory; They will go echoing with me till I come Home to my hills. . . / Ted Olson, in the New York Herald.

I s • A Prayer Oh, Young New Year, take not these things from me — The olden faiths; the shining loyalty Of friends the bitter, searching years have proved— The glowing hearth fires, and the, books I loved; All wonted kindnesses and welcoming All safe, hard-trodden paths to which I cling. Oh, gay New Year, glad with the thrill of spring— Leave me the ways that were my comforting! — Laura Simmons, in New York Life. . *? You Sang In My Dream You sang to me, dear, last night through all of my dreaming— 0, why did you sing?— To know that your song and ray joy are only seeming Is a bitter thing. \ For into your voice all our multiplied loves came thronging, Dreams have heartless ways, — And then I awoke to this numb, inarticulate longing Of silent days. —S. M. Madeleva, in Knights Errant. They They have scribbled on the walls and on the table linen, They have planted onions in my painted flower-box, They have pulled the peony buds and played with them for marbles, And shorn their elfin locks. They have striped themselves with paint until they looked like ancient Britons, They have played with poison ivy till their eye were swollen shut, They have fallen down the cellar stairs and out of sleeping porches , And head first in the water butt. They have set their bare feet firmly on bees and broken bottles, They have stabbed themselves severely with shears and carving knives, They have stood in front of motor cars and dared the things to kill them, And with the greatest difficulty I have saved their lives. Aline Kilmer, in the New York Sun and Globe. -v . w The Owl When I was young my heart inclined To eggs and fishes, moths and stamps. These were the lodestones of my mind, And to my feet-succeeding lamps. But moths dissolve and stamps decay, Fishes grow stale and eggs take wings; And when my childhood passed away I put away all childish things. ‘ Now am I Mammon’s through and through, , And suffer in my soul disease. I have forgotten all I knew Of newts and lizards, toads and bees. e Now am I lost. Long years ago I heard the gates of Heaven slam-: Yet deep within my bones I know All that I ever was I am. To-night I felt the silent beat Of owlets’ wingsmy blood rushed fast. , , Breathless I knew beneath my feet A little outcrop of the past. Alexander Gray, in the London Mercury. 7