selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 32, 26 August 1925, Page 32

selected Poetry

. THE moon. Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, M - e ’ " -ir" ' ‘ j; . . . . - Oh thou fair Moon, so .close and bright; ; Thy beauty makes me like the child, That cries aloud to own thy light: The -little child that lifts each arm , To press thee to her • bosom warm. . : ■ ■ ; v V’"-:-' - : ■- . •' . Though there are birds that sing this night / With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak - for me- - than for them their sweetest; notes: Who worships the© till music fails - Is . greater than thy nightingales. , r-W. H. Davies in Anthology of Modern Verse ■ , _ • ’ mm * J't-i KiiV - }V v ' vi. ■ ‘ TRAVEL. . The railroad track is.miles away, ■ - And the day is loud with voices speaking. Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day, But I hear its whistle shrieking. All, night the re_ isn’t a train goes by ..Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, , * But I see its cinders red on the sky, And I hear its engine steaming. ■-■ v ' ' ; ' • : :. - • i My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, . Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, V'- “ ' - vV- ■ ' / • . • - -• 3 No matter where it’s going. : Edna St. Vincent Millay, in Renascence k and Other Poems. /rc:v-; •/: . K* >r- . I THE FORESTER'S COMPLAINT. • • . - • ' ’ - - > • Through our wild wood-walks here, <- Sunbright and shady, ’.Free as the forest deer, ■-/ Reams a lone lady; 1 Far from her castle-keep, . Down in the valley, . i, Roams she', by dingle deep, > ‘ Green holm and alley, c- With her sweet presence bright Gladd’ning my dwelling y Oh, fair her face of light, . - Past .the tongue’s telling!-, , -• . 5 Woo was me , ' k ■ E’er to see .3 Beauty ,so shining; . , ; i Ever since hourly, . ,’ ( Have, I been pining! . ’ ’■. * * . • ■ -i . In our . blithe sports’ debates Down by the river, : vl,of my merry mates; ■ v . : ■ t-* • - T , ' ■; . ■ , -3 Foremost was ever; Skilfullest with my flute, i j ; Leading the maidens Heark’ning, by moonlight, mute; ' * -_ To its sweet .cadence; Sprightliest in the dance ' '“■ : Tripping together—- ... Such a one was I once , .. ; - ■,*■ -i-s * • .... Ere she came hither!

Woe was me E’er to see • -_• . ■ , . . ■; Beauty so shining; . . - . • - V Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining I Loud now my comrades laugh As I pass by them; Broadsword and quarter-staff . No more . I ply them : Coy now the. maidens frown . Wanting their dances ; How can their , faces brown Win one, who fancies Even an angel’s face Dark to be seen would . Be, by the Lily-grace Glad (filing . the greenwood ? Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so shining; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining! Wolf, by my broken bow Idle is lying, • While through the woods All the day, sighing, - Tracing her footsteps small Through; the moss’d r cover, Hiding then, breathless all, At the sight of her, Lest my rude gazing should From her haunt scare her — Ch, what a solitude . Wanting her, there were ! Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so. shining; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining I Sir S. Ferguson. 96* SHAMROCK SONG. 0, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; . But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the very heart of me! Many a lover hath the rose When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows And in many a bower is heard ■ # Her sweet praise from bee and bird. Through the gold hours drearaeth she, In her warm heart passionately, Her fair face hung languid-wise : 0, her breath of honey and spice! .... i;- , -•/ ■’: ' ■ ■ . , Like a fair saint virginal . Stands your lily, silver and .tall; Over 1 all' the flowers that be Is my shamrock dear to me. •U '' '• ■■■ .» ' Slimes the lily like the sun, r Crystal-pure,, a cold sweet nun; With her austere lip she,sings rr>' r. " .■■■ e 1. 1 .1 • To her heart of . heavenly .things.

Gazeth through a night of June - • ' - To her * Sister-Saint, 'the moon. ' ■ ■ s: l|Sj|i| With the stars ; communeth long ; 'VC*?'.*:■•<“•■ V;.---V.l : ', ~*■ -■■:•.:•••*.i, ” V.:'- A Of the angels and their song.- - ■■--v;: But when Summer died last year • - : ~ Rose and lily died with her; " I Shamrock stayeth every day, *•,/••• i -.-i -it • ■% n ’ ; ■ , ' Be the winds or gold or grey, - • '. - * v : _ ; , . ... , •• ' - -• ■••> I r;-: Irish hills, as grey as the dove, ■ Know the little plant I love;. , : •, :: Warm and fair it mantles them, Stretching down from throat to hem. • - ' ' • ■ ' •:: \ ■ . *.■t’s And it laughs o’er many a vale, v Sheltered safe from storm and gale; . Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love. i A ' ' ' '*■• c/j Soft it clothes the ruined floor Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead 11 ‘ With its green is carpeted. Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof; _ Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity. ■ : ■ " ' ■ fv ' . ' ■ '' . ■ • ••• These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock, brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day. .a- - 0, the red rose shineth rare, ’ And the lily saintly fair; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me — Katherine Tynan, in Irish Minstrelsy. ...a* THE LAD WHO CAME BACK. . y They used to whisper of him : _ In the place where he was born The grasses and the wee wild things That gossip in the morn. _ Said one : “He used to love us well; But now he never comes, Since he put a flag above him v To the beating of the drums.” ■ , ; , ' . ; 'A ' ■ ' Then, on a rainy evening, He was borne to them again, To lie in death’s great silence . In the shadows of the glen. Wrapped in his country’s flag was he .a ~ Her drums his dirge did call; The lad who had died for liberty, In the name of Donegal. —Teresa Bratton in the Irish Weekly o k V -• ’ . . .■. N ft* •'■ ■ ■ • WILT PRAY FOR ME? Wilt pray for me? : -V They tell'me I have fame; I plead with thee, Sometimes just fold my name In beautiful Hail Marys, - And you give me more , Than all the world besides. :It praises Poets: for : the well-sung lay; , But Ah! It hath forgotten how to pray. :; It brings to brows of Poets crowns pride fj Some win such crowns and wear; Give me, instead, a simple little prayer, -■,£ —(Father) Abram Ryan, in Poems. I