BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1043, 4 February 1911, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

VERSES OLD AND NEW. TO A ITtIEND OF BOYHOOD LOST AT SEA. ' O warm blue sky and dazzling sen, ,Where have you hid my friend from mo? The wkito chalk coast, tho leagues of ■. surf Laugh to tho Jlay-light, now as then, ■ And violets in tho short sweet turf Jlako fragmentary heavens, again, And sea-born wings of rustling snow Pass and repass as long ago,. Old. friend, do you remember yet. Tho days when secretly wo met' In that old harbour, years a-back, ■Where I admired your billowing-walk, Or in that perilous fishing smack SVhat tarry oaths perfumed .your talk, ' Tho sails wo set, 'tho ropes wo spliced, The raw potato.that we sliced. ■For mackerel-bait—and how it 6h'ine3 Far down,'at end of the tpit lines!-- : And the great catch we mado that day, Loading our boat with rainbows, quick And quivering, while you smoked your clay; . And I took home your "Deadwood Dick" In yellow and red, when day was done, And you took home my Stevenson? 9 #• # # .Not leagues, as when you sailed the deep, But only some frail bars of sleep. Sever us now! Methinks you still Eecall, as I, in dreams, the quay, % The littlo port below the hill:.' And all the changes of the sea, . .. Liko some great music,.can but roll :Our lives still nearer, to the goal. —Alfred Noyes,' in the "Westminster ■ Gizettc." . ' WED. • s X.marriod him. oil- Christmas morn,— Ah woe betide, ah woe betide, Folk said I was a-comely bride,— - Ah me forlorn. , All braided was my golden hair, ' And heavy-then, and shining then, My limbs were sweet, to madden men,— 0 cunning snare. ■ My beauty was a thing they say. Of large renown, —0 dread renown, — lis rumour travelled through the town, Alas the day. His kisses burn my mouth and brows,— 0 burning kiss, 0 barren kiss,— My body for his worship is, : 'And so lie vows. Biit daily many men draw near. With courtly speech, and subtle.speech; 1 gather from the lips of each' A deadly: fear..' . ;■'.'. As he grows sullen I grow cold, ■ And whose the blame? Not mine tho blame; ■ - . .Their passions round me as a flame All fiercely fold. And oh, to think that ho might be So proudly set, above tliem .set, ' If ho might but awaken yet . Tfie soul" of me.' Will no man seek and seeking find The soul of me, the soul of me? Nny, even as tliev are, so is he, And.all.are blind". 1 On Christmas morning, we were wed, ■ .'Ah ine the niorn, the luckless morn, ■ Now poppies burn, along the corn, V Would-L-woro dead- . - ... ...' —John Drinkwater, 'in the "Westmin- ' rter Gazette."