Among the Poets

Levin Daily Chronicle, 8 February 1917, Page 4

Among the Poets

j TO THE GOD OiF WAR. ' Could but the myriad groans be rolled j in one great moan, t Uculd but the wasted blood flow by your bestial throne, Could but the widow and the orphan stand in one great mighty grief-stained ] band, Their tears rolled into one great flood - That mingled with their loved ones' blood, No martial music could efface that moan, No patriot's flowing 'rhyme for that great grief atone. Would "patriotism" look upon a sword And say, "Behold the weapon of the Lord." Would then thy worshippers their tribute bring, And priest and prelate then acolaim 'J thee King? » No! Then would fall the scales from ! off their eyes, j And curses on all war wouldi Heaven- | ward rise. l! F.D., in London Herald. THE CHANGE. (n this spring a young man's fancy Will not turn to thoughts of love, To the blooming of the roses, To the cooing turtle dove, -But to visions, of the trenches. And to thoughts of grimmest hate, To the singing of the bullets And their deadly song of fate. Not a spring this is of roses, .Nor of love and birds and flowers; Foil- most sinister its portents, Dark and bfbody are its hours. With no time for tender passions, Trampled in its early bloom, And the young man's fancy shudders As life seems one ghastly tomb. A MEMORY. Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond', A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing; What a little thing To remember for years— To remember with teal's! HOME. I know a spot between three ancient treeg, A solitude of green and grassy shade, Where the tall roses, naked to the knees, In that deep shadow wade, Whose rippled coolness drips from bough to bou,gh, And bathes the world's vexation from my brov. The gnarled limbs spring upward airyfree, And from thei'r perfect arch they scarcely swerve, Like spouted fountains from a dark green sea So beautiful they curve Motionless fountains, slumbering in mid air, With sprays of shadows falling everywhere. Here the sun comes not like the king of day, To rule his own, but hesitant afraid, Forbeairs his sceptre's golden length to lay Across the shade, And wraps the broad space like a darkened tent, With many a quivering raft of splendour rent. No garrulous company is hero, but books— Earth's best men taken at" their best —books used. With dark-edged paths, and' pencilled margin-strokes, Where friends have paused and mused, And here and there beneath the noticed lines, Faint zig-zag marks like little trailing vinos. ... —Edward Roland Sill. LAKE LEMAN, It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk yet olear, -Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capped heights appealPrecipitously steep; and drawing near. There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oair, Or chirps the grasshopper one goodnight carol. more; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fiU, At intervals, some bird from out the braikes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. . . . All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;— All heaven and earth are still; from the liigjh host Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast. . . —Byron.