Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 43, 15 October 1924, Page 51

Selected Poetry

SLEEP CHARM ■ Mistily my sleep comes down. (What now of the brilliant sea?) Mistily the silken brown Darkness covers me. Quietly my sleep draws near. (What now of the wind’s long flight?) Quietly comes, down the dear Nothingness of night. —Hazel Hall in Poetry. *? . . . r HELEN TELLS THE WORLD (From evidence contained in a recently excavated Egyptian manuscript, scholars have conceded that Helen of Troy was real.) Why, look you, they go with a handful of Arabs To dig in a tomb for papyri, for scarabs, For objects Egyptian of every description, All wrinkled, all gray with the dust of the ages, And shining like gold on some Ptolemy’s pages They spy a cognomen, the —absit omen! Once sang through the world to the clashing of steel, A name that was fire, a symbol, a cause, And they say I was “real!” Well, I’ll say that I was! When Ilium toppled to embers and chaos Before the revenge of my spouse, Menelaus, Who swore he would harass both Priam and Paris, When half of the world jostled sail on the ocean To join in the fray, with such horrid commotion That all the immortals flew down to our portals And cheered from the side lines—Go on: give me credit! - When king slaughtered king for a lock of my hair. Was I real? Ah, you said it! My dear, I was there ! My hair was as bright as the coins of Croesus, My throat was the best in the Peloponnesus I had a nice ankle, a smile that could rankle, A mouth —they all vowed it was honey and roses; And every one envied my straightest of noses. My eyes had a slither distinctly “come hither.” Why, Homer wrote verses in praise of my lashes! And now the professors “concede” me. That’s good! Was I real? Ask the ashes Where Ilium stood. ■ _ Jessie Henderson, in Ainshe’s Magazine. l. . tp YOUTH PROTESTS Let those who sing the joys of youth be still And for a while consider what they say. From early dawn to twilight close of day, , Year in, year out, the foolish graybeards fill The patient air with reminiscence shrill Of “carefree seventeen” and “joyous, gay, Light-hearted twenty’’—quite forgetting they Found life, when young, as now, a bitter pill. Oh, sages, if to bury cherished dreams, ' Daily, with trembling fingers; if to wake Sobbing, at midnight and not knowing why; If, to grope blindly for a truth that seems ’ j Forever just beyond one, is to make Of life a carefree dance, your babbling is no lie. —Elizabeth Dillingham in The Quill (New York).

A BOY'S SONG ON CIRCUS DAY . Hip, hooray, for circus day! , Am I happy?— should say! . Yes, the circus is in town, • - With its elephant and clown; With its monkey and its bear; With its lion in his lair; With its tricky riding mule Not from any riding schoolLincoln Brothers circus show Plays to-day—you bet I'll go. Break of day, on Walnut Street, Saw me up, the show to greet. Say, my heart was filled with joy, And the heart of ev'ry boy Danced around his breast, I think, When an el'phant stopped to drink From a trough of water, where I was standing, in the square, With a crowd of boys and men. That big el-phant drank, and then, When he quit.and off did trot X Down the street and to the lot Where the circus show is held Up I threw my hat and yelled. To the circus grounds I ran, And a big, fat circus man, Standing there, in dewy grass, Told me I could earn a pass If I'd help him— you see, That was just what suited me. So I helped him and his men, Toting poles and seats, and then, When we got that circus built, From his vest this card of gilt He pulled forth and gave to me—- " Pass one boy," it says—just see! ■ Gee, but ain't there lots of class To this pretty circus pass? —Sam. J. Banks, in the Albany Evening News, THE LAST SHORE From the rocky haunts of birds The ancient shepherd ocean Is watching the faint herds ■ ' Of his endless motion; In the black expanse of heaven The. bright stars gleam like tears, . .; And beneath is a grey mist driven— Ah! hope of years! And under the mist each wave Bears a heart that beats no more, That is stranded as they lave The fantom shore. The ancient shepherd ocean Is whispering, "0 cease! 0 cease this soulless motion And give me peace!" Ah! There is nothing. here but grief; There fs not the rest we need Save where upon the reef The dead hearts bleed, And on the cheek of heaven '■-■- The bright stars trail like tears While the mist is a grey hope driven By the storm of years. —Pascal D'Angelo, in The Bookman.