PROSE POEMS.

Press, Volume LXI, Issue 18425, 4 July 1925, Page 11

PROSE POEMS.

• « i- « THE STRANGER. . ' "Stranger, from that little town I •." have not seen for long, tell me about it. , ,|s 'the sky. still blue, and do white ' clouds drift across it on clear mornings? "' Is the street steep as ever, and the ' small harbour, do children play along ! sts wall! At night are the lamps lit and does the light show between the v/ 1 curtains? Does* the light show, and, »*' within, have they laughter, and comradeship after.the day's work, and old '''-men returning to the sea whence they leturaed long ago? Have they these things? And have they hope, and talk 1 " about the future, and shy glances—and that sweet pain called love? Have they these things! THE LAST THING. Who'd be afraid of death? I think ' that only fools are. Tor it is not as ' though this thing were given to one '■- man only, but all receive it. The .journey that my friend makes I can make also. If I know nothing els?, I know this: Igo where he is. O fools, shrinking, from that little door through - which so many kind and lovely souls have passed before you, will you hang back? Harder in your case than another? Not so. And too much , silence? Has there not been enough j;tir here? Go bravely, for where so . - much greatness and gentleness have been already you should be glad to P y - Monk Gibbon in the "Fortnightly."