Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 44, 18 November 1925, Page 32

Selected Poetry

THE JOURNEY’S END. Good-bye, dear heart. Be thou, as I am, glad. |v Glad for the grace of loneliness and yearn- ' ing My heart, far faring from thee, shall have had Ere its returning. Pluck future Joy from out this present pain Rejoice to know that these small seeds of sorrow Shall be Love's harvest when we meet again, Some bright to-morrow. — T. A. Dalv, in An Anthology of Modern I’er.se. V THE DUNCE. I had no learning, and no brains; And every master called me dull; Of furze-lit hills, and leafy lanes, And bluebells tall, in woods to cull; Of all of these, at school I dreamed, And all the rest hut foolish seemed. No brains I had, and not much heart To tot up figures in a sum; Tho leaf-brown road, the haypilod cart, The. bramble fruit, the wild bee’s hum, The wood fire’s incense on the breeze — No care had I but just for these. The pupils looked at me askance, ' Their quickness made me shamed and shy— With their drab world at variance, I had no wish but just to lie And probe what lay beyond the skies, And wonder if the learned are Aviso. —March Cavanagh, in the Irish World. ▼ JACK STUB BINS. Jack Stubbins was a carter lad Who hadn’t much to say. They paid him little, loved him less. And so, one summer day, He lip and joined the Infantry, And marched with them away. He marched away to Waterloo And stood within a square; The drizzling rain that fell at dawn . Made drake-tails in his hair— But when the sun shone out again Jack Stubbins wasn’t there, Johnny Stubbins had no money, And, he hadn’t any brains; The only tilings that Johnny left Are tersely called “remains” — Maybe the soil of Mont St. Jean A trace of these retains. . . But all the rest of Johnny Has long whistled down the wind— At it was this haunted breeze, That blew him to my mind, And I who hear the haunted breeze Am puzzled what to say; Why I should hear the haunted breeze, And he — blown away. ; ' — G.K.Is Weekly.

ARBOR NO BILLS. (Ireland in the Penal Days.) Like a. Cedar our greatness arose from the earth ; Or a plane by some broad-flowing river; Like arms that give blessing its, boughs it put forth: We thought it would bless us for ever. The birds of the air in its branches found rest ; The old lions crouched in its shadow ; Like a cloud o’er the sea was its pendulous crest; It murmur’d for leagues o'er the .meadow. Was a worm at its root Was it. lightning that charr’d What age after age had created ? Not so! T’was 'Hie merchant its glory, that ma rr’d And the malice that, fearing it, hated. Its branches lie splintered ; the hollow trunk groans Like a church that survives desolations; But the leaves, scatter’d far when the hurricane moans. For their healing are sent to the nations. —Aubrey nr, Verb. 4C CALLING TO ME. Through the hush of my heart in the spell of its dreaming Comes the song of a bush boy glad-hearted and free; Oh. the gullies arc green where the sunlight is streaming, Q And the voice of that youngster is calling to me. It is calling to me with a haunting insistence, And my feet wander oil on a hoof-beaten track, Till I hear the old magpies away in the dis- , tance With a song of the morning that's calling me hack. It is calling me back, for the dew’s on the clover, And the colors are mellow on mountain and tree; Oh, the gold has gone gray in the heart of the rover. And the bush in the sunshine is calling to me. It is calling to me, though the breezes are telling Gay troubadour tales to the stars as they roam; For the tapers are lit in the humble old dwelling, And the love that it sheltered is calling me home. It is calling; me home —but the white, road lies gleaming, And afar from it all must T tarry and dree; Just an echo far off, in the hush of my dreaming, Is the voice of a youngster that’s calling to me. — “John O’Brien’' in Around the Borce Log.

THE JOURNEY. -V : When Shakspere cam© to London, Three centuries ago. Ho came where hills rise steeply, Where silver rivers flow By Shipstpne, , Woodstock,. Oxford, . Through Wycombe’s market square, And little dreamt the townsfolk . . What traveller went there. ■. When Shakspere broke his journey, The landlord at the inn Would pay but grudging homage To one whoso purse-was thin. A nobody from Stratford, A pilgrim 'numbly clad — For who was there to whisper The treasure that lie had? ’ ' The folk along the highway Would greet him as he came, Nor guess his morrow’s magic, Nor guess his morrow's fame. And did lie hear the triumph Of all the years to be, Or but a blackbird piping Upon a willow-tree ? — Armey St. John Adcock, in the Home Magazine. * THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There’s nothing true but heaven! And false the light on glory’s plume, As fading hues of even; And love, and hope, and beauty’s bloom Are blossoms gathered for the tomb — There’s nothing bright but heaven Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we’re driven, , And fancy’s flash and reason’s ray Serve but to light the troubled way There’s nothing calm but heaven! —Thomas Moore. * THE WOMAN OF THE BEADS. No white-haired harper at his instrument, Who calls sad melodies from all the strings, Ever a sweeter strain to heaven sent Than saying over and over the self-samo things. 0 lyric dreamer, woman of the beads, Whose days all run in Rosary refrain, Your fingers feel the strings when sore heart bleeds, For singing softer is the hard catch-of' pain ! Harper of humble message to the skies, Through all the strings there runs a single note. Yet, lonely woman, the tears wait in your eyes, The lyric gasp is halting in the throat. Lady of faded face, of fallen cheek, Whispering Hail Marys as if unto a lover. She of the Sorrows loves you when you speak The same words, never tiring, over, over. — P; J. Carroll, C.S.C. - , in an exchange.