Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 50, 16 December 1925, Page 32

Selected Poetry

* ■ : . AS I CAME DOWN THE HILL. W, As I came down the hill at twilight grey, I . The soft-voiced winds, colloging, passed me> by; . A frightened moor-bird screamed and flew away; One timid star, alone, showed in the sky. : Across the quiet bog a curlew's cry . 'Hang weirdly, through the dusk, 'twixt night and day. mm ;.'.' I And, from the West's dim cheeks, the sunAnd, from the West's dim cheeks, the sun- ££"■ set's flush fe Was fading, and across. the heather still, pi On purple wings; the twilight's hazy hush lip.; Fell with the early dew. A little rill, I-. On silver feet, went laughing down the |: { ' hill; fl^c ; Laving the feet of many a fern and rush. jv. With lagging steps, a down the dusky brae, ? ; ■ The horses plodded, loosened from the !;-.-; ploughs; H On some green hedge a blackbird ceased its f lay, | And, up a winding lane, 'neath blossomed |," boughs, |'••- A herd was whistling home-ward with his |: . - cows, I As I came down the hill at twilight grey. |- —Patrick Doherty, in the Irish World. m * |; A MEMORY.

r George Sigerson (Poet, Physician, Scholar). | Stately he moved as some old argosy, :>' Bearing through troubled seas sweet-scented i v dreams I And memories of ancient- rites outlived, || The ages' fruit —life's precious things, he %/ bore: | A faith in this dear land; a visioning | Far, far beyond the soiled and torn veil P "Of stale illusions, sordid strifes and greed. .r The greater land of which he oft-times sang: Ip The Ireland of his hope; his manhood's pride. Pi' Love's sacred torch he brought to light her %.':, r - feet, ■ ; * A charity as wide as Bregia's plain, Wjs '; A friendship linked with loyal links of steel, pp An open heart to welcome, princely-wise, ;§h ; 'A gracious hand that, healing, touched the H •;, poor ' • |i; As, golden-lipped, he walked among his I' dreams. Things fair and beautiful he prized. Childp.': ■ ; hood ; . | The inner life; the God in futile men; |p Carvings on stone to shape some mystic ■fc- dream ; 1';..: Color and craft where inspiration wrought; W% The joy of sound; the skill of human hands; lijg These all—the best we know of life—he loved. I ■v Death has not sealed his being. Potent still 1 His message calls. Vibrant the chord it p/. } ' wakes. i;:... He has not passed. His spirit-breath re;f~ mains Q Warming our dreams; uplifting slow-spun Wi-:'r'' •days f£ ; And weaving calm from out life's restless '':'• core. ■ ... ......... v. ...

Richer our days by far, that he has lived, Sweeter our thoughts that he has known and shared Nobler of him this nation now bereft Of all the wondrous lore his wisdom gleaned. "Yet not farewell! That heart is pulsing still Deathless and free! Great Bard of Gaedheal and Gall! —Agnes O'Farrelly. LET MY SOUL BE A TRUMPET. Let my soul be a trumpet sounding The radiant love of the Lord Forever at locked gates pounding With the force of the living word. Let my soul be a slim flute, singing Bright airs in the dark of the sod, Recalling the White Dove winging From the wonderful Mind of God. Let my soul be a green tree blowing In the cold, gray paths of the rain, So that men may be gladdened for knowing The beauty that springs from pain. Let my soul be a lily of whiteness, Spread peerlessly pure in the morn. To dazzle the world growing sightless To things that are spirit-born. And then at the last let my soul Intangible of desire Be blown to its ultimate goal:

brod s bosom or tire. —J. Corson Miller, in America. f THEM MOTORS! (The Pertinent Remarks of a Certain Old Man.) Them motors . . . whiles, I used think them terrible curses, Consated big things, full o' pride in big purses, With scanty respect for the meek and the low, An' danger for poor folk * wherever they'd go! The speed o' them dazed —as hard as I tried To manoeuvre me donkey-an'-cart a, wan side, The horn would still screech, an' the fine motor-folk Would be there, just atop o' meself an' the yoke, With their eyes screwed scornful, their heads in the air, An' the driver's scowl provin' how well he could swear. Then they'd be gone, an' me lone I might nurse Me grievance agin them thankin' God 'twasn't worse, Till by-an'-by, whew! bringin' fear to me heart, Roun' the bend another would shave the woe donkey-an'-cart, 11. An' the dust o' them .'. .! Whiles, I used pity the eye o.' the traveller that met them an' they whirlwindin' by

Like clouds in the desert or snows in the : l, Wast, " ' '■ - : • ' \J j j- [ :^" v l Bringin' doom an' discomfort to folk as they passed. i \ .■-••- ; A «f* For think o' the germs o' the ills o' the world r Sthrewn like billions o' bees in the dust r • while it purled, [ % To multiply countless in your throat or mine An' shorten our days with small-pox or de- f cline ! - '| If the. weather was wet, sure, it scarcely could matter: The dust wouldn't risebut you got it in splatter From the head to the heels, fine creamy brown mud That covered you over with germs in its flood; They hung to you, clung to you, dried an' . came off To bear fruit at home in a sudden queer fever or cough. 111. The fumes o' them, too! . . . God forgive me, the smell Used to mind me o' brimstone an' divils in I'll not be severe on them: maybe rich noses Like them scents we do read about better than roses! There was the loud noise o' their travellin' forbye— No wonder good dacent men's horses would shy At the ingine's back-firin' (mark, i' you plaze,

How I have the new word at the end o' me I days). ~-V But the oily loud things had worse than their '^ roar 1 Sure you seen it yourself, the way that they | tore ' ,y Big holes in our roads with their weight an' } their speed, fi So that a man's cart must go canny indeed. * An' crownin' it all, they brought wild youth ( a-sportin' ;] To spend money foolish, drivin', feastin', an' f courtin'. IV. I used judge them curses. . . I used, do you mind? But this last lock o' years I'm not that way { inclined there's" me hand, I'm the changedest man ever you seen—I've a Ford in the barn an' 'tis fit for a queen, A powerful improvement on the donkey-an'-cart For the town an' the markets, though I tell you me heart An odd time flutters wild when I try to make haste An' have to slow up for some obstinate baste, A dame with an 'ass, or a farmer with sheep— . . ' ) Sure you'd think that they had the whole i road in their keep. F- ■ £ The frowns o' them, too, an' the impident ' .&. way • .j£Their cattle delays you the length of a day. .' Now, when myself had a donkey. . . But come round to the car •■ And we'll do forty mile or so~qou jean tell -"'-:" me how far. ;i; i fVi tv'ff-" i v.;"—Shiel Mao Dara, in the Irish Weekly.