BOOKS OF THE DAY
David M'Kee Wright's Poems. To readers of the Sydney "Bulletin the name of David M'Kee Wright, wither »f "An Irish Heart" (Angus and Robertson; Wellington: S. and W. MacKay), will bo pleasantly familiar. Iter Mr. Wright, who, by the way, lived some years in New Zealand befo'ro settling in Australia, has written some of the most deliglitful verse which has ever appeared In the "Bulletin," which is saying not a little. Of ScotsIrish descent, lie is clearly a passionate admirer of Celtic legends ami Irish folk-lore, and his poems exhibit that hue, free imaginative power and wistful, mysterious beauty which characterise so much of the vorse which wo associate with what has been called the Celtic Renaissance. A large proportion of the poems now collected have an Irish motif, an old legend recast, or some quaint old custom newlv described. In some Mr. Wright uses the traditional ballad metre, in others ho recalls the Elizabethan and Caroline lyric poets. Ever is his fancy delicate, if sometimes whimsical, and in places his lines are of quite exquisite musical beauty. In "Morn's Desire" there is a distinctly Yeats-like strain. The author of "Innisfree" could scarce better in delicacy of. fancy and verbal music such lines as these: The Yonhg Day combs his yellow liair On tlie mountains of Morn's Desire; And, oh, but my Ijove, my Love is fair, And her heart is a rose of lire! The sea has fingers foamy white That fondle the wet, wot sand: But oh, my Love has a touch aa light As the lily.that's iu her hand. The Young Wind draws a fiddlo bowOver mountain, and sun. and sea; Hut the voice of- my Love is kind and low With a bridal melody. And all the world is mine to wear— The sea, and tho song, and tho fire— For, oh, but my Love, my Love is.fair On the mountain.of Morn's. Doairn. In some few of the poems there aro references to the great war. Thus, in the "Song of Little Gardens!' Mr.Wright strikes a note of impressive contrast between peace and war: ' There's., a hum of quiet mimic in the deepcuing of the twilight, Like far bells in distant valleys heard through lull of murmurous trees, Or tho ellin chant that haunts ub when tlio thin morn casts a shy light, Down a happy wind-tossed mountain with a cornfield, at its knees: "Pis the song of litllo gardens, '\,\b tho song of quiet labour. Of the purple grapes in cluster and the rose upon the wall. OX the blue smoke climbing skyward and the kindly-nodding neighbour. And tho moist, warm earth upbreatliing its brown benison for all. Alas for the. peaceful quietude of the "little gardens": . When the drums of death arc throbbing, and the tires of doom arc burning 1 Then must the "hum of quiet music" give place to tho . • . sigh of little gardens, trampled under foot and wasted. Of tho withered leaf and blossom by tho black and broken wall, Of the vine torn from the trellis, and tho fruit that falls untested. r And the awful thing unburied where tho reeds aro rank and tall. But the poet has hope and confidence that all .will yet, in God's good time, be 'well with the "little gardens." Through the world-cry aud the darkness, stony grief, and fierce red sorrow, Through tho war-hymns and tho shouting, through the victor's shuddering cheer, Oomes the hope-voice, faint, but clearly borne on tho mist-wings of the morrow, Calling all the earth to uuiet, making music of her fear. 'Tis the song of little gardons, better walled and safely nimrded, With the large fruit hanging golden o'er the graves of broken kings; And the holy swoat of labour by tho brown earth's gifts rewarded, With tho peoples calm to lißten while tho warm, sweet 'summer sines. My final extract from a volume whose evfli-y page is clamant for quotation shall bo from a poem, "Pen of Mine," which exhibits the poet's vivid and whimsical imagination at work:
Pen of mine, the world Is grey. Making, dead men all, the day, Stamping sorrow in the clay; And a bitter ononis .runs Prom the muzzli! of the gmiHDeath is early, death is late! In his garments of black-hate, ftunning youth and beauty after, How he slays the mirth and lanerlitcr Of the day I bet us play. Pen of mine, I -will give you ink for wine Till your starry fancies shine With a lilt in every ray, Pen of mine, the Spanish llaia Seen the silver ships in train. Para we forth from Bristol town, Hold to take and bold to drown— Swings old Timo upon its hinEC— Philip's beard is good to since. Brake will answer to his DrumWhere they serve the reddest rum.' Westward ho! and Kastward ho! Kiss me thrice before we go! 'Homeward bound I The Asian air Tingles to the spices rare. We Bhall find an Arab tent Wider than a continent. Till, with ail our canvas free, wo round the bend of Jlouiory Keeking with our jolly crew That first music laughter blew, Blow, Pan, blow! And here's tho Devjll Dome hotrfoot to graco tho revel, With the clown and pantaloon, And elfin dance 'neatli the moon, Orpheus and the Muses Nine, And Venus smiling from tho brine. With Prostor John uud Paul and Peter And Jlosiunund with Hal to greet her, And jolly friar and modern ranter, And QuiJii and Punch and Tarn O'Sliantcr, Blow high, blow low! 'flie world shall go To the mad danoe it used to know! For pen of mine, pen of mine, There's wine in ink and ink in wine. "The Kissing of I'ogeen,' l "The Weed Tryst," and "Tho Holy Piper," and tho final and lengthy "Dark KosaIccn" arc all poems in which the author's work could well stand comparison with that of certain much-boomed poets at the other end of the world. Tho whole volume is one where "sweete compacted lie." one which should denil lovers of tuneful nnd graceful verse.
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Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 294, 31 August 1918, Page 11
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1,012BOOKS OF THE DAY Dominion, Volume 11, Issue 294, 31 August 1918, Page 11
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