AMONG THE POETS

Horowhenua Chronicle, 16 June 1916, Page 2

AMONG THE POETS

« A FHAGMENT. Love had ho found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teach«r« had been woods and j ills, The silence that i&in the starry sky. The deep that is among the loneiy hills. In him the savage virtue of the Race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were diead: Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wiadom which adversity tiaa bred, —Word*worth. '("Song at the Feast of Brougham SUNSET WINOS. To-night this sunset 6prefads two golden wings Oieflving the western sky; Winged too with wind it is, iiul winnowinga Of birds; . * ■ Sun-stceped in fire, the homeward pinions sway Above the dovecote-tops; And clouds, of starlings, ere they rest with day, Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, By turns in every copse: Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives,— Save for the whir within, You could not tell the starlings from tho leaves; Then one great puff of winga, and the swarm heaven And ceases nil its din. —Dante Gabriel Roaettn. THE SILENCED CALL. When the budfc hurst out in the springtime The gods of the forest call. To the men who work in the city's murk, Harried and sore and small. "Come," cry the gods, "pome, leave behind Tho strain and worry, the deadlv grind ; 3omp where the pines grow straight and tall, Lnd taste of life in the springtime!' lut the call of the .good Red God* ot old ! drowned by the shriek of the God of Gold.

When the wind is west in the springtime And the winter's browns turn green, A few there are who near at&r The oalj from the voreet-screen — Who hear the deet in the leaf-strewn giidea Audi the Laughing swish of the paddleblades; Bui they're few indeed, and far 'oo tween, Thuiigh the streets grow hot in 'ho springtime. For the Rod Gods' call is not as bold As the piercing (shriek of the God <>f Gold. When the air ia sweet with the springtime And the robin singß at dawn l — When men arc white from tho winter's fight, And their eyes are dull and drawn. There comes a sound, liar off nncl shrill; The .toiler stops with brain a-thri'i; Bit all in vain; the sou ml is gone, /nd the eyelids droop in the springtime. So the Red Gods' tale remains untold, Drowned out by tho howl of the God of Gold. —K. F. Roberts, in "Life."