WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8338, 25 January 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown* the poet s pen Turns them to shapes.'* “ GOLD AND PEARL AND AMETHYST (Musical Eights Reserved.) Asleep upon tho glass she lay. Love passing stooped, her eyes he kissed; Her face was fair, her robe was gay With gold and pearl and amethyst. She woke and fled in sweet dismay. She vanished in the morning mist. But left behind her bright array. With gold and pearl and amethyst. And there it lies this very day; Go, gaze upon it if ye list. “Crocuses in the grass!" they say— Ho. gold and pearl and amethyst: —Helen Taylor. THE DREAMERS KNOW X When we built the hopes of youth, Those high embattled hopes, When wo heard the wonder-call Ring through the echoing world. When the solemn vision grow, Splendour and hope and joy. Like the mounting hues of dawn. Across tho heaven of God, What was the light that shone? What was the song we heard? Whence was the daring plan? What memory divine Of the glory whence we came Was the dream of our desire? None but the dreamers know. Only the dreamers know. 11. When, the years are closing in, When the skies of life are grey, And tho hopes are unfulfilled, And the wonder-call Is dumb, And still the heart is glad. Proud for tho hope that was, Tor the echo in the soul. For the memory of dawn, , What are the tones that live? Whence tho abiding joy Of tho dream, that never dies? Who but the dreamers know? Only tho dreamers know. 111. When the light of life is low, And our lovers stand i around And watch the flickering gleam. When the soul is far withdrawn From tho communing® of earth, No more to be recalled From the brink of that beyond, What vision holds it there. To what far world withdrawn, In what far dream absorbed? None but tho dreamers know. Only the dreamers know. —Wilfrid Richmond. THE KINGFISHER It was the Rainbow gave thee birth. And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name wus Tears, So runs in it thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Go you and, with such glorious hues. Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass. Let every feather show its marks; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before tho windows of proud kings. Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain: Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That’s green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a treo Sigh with her bosom over me. —William H. Davies. A CYCLE Old mem weave memories, sitting in the sun. Of a world grown vain, whose onetime vaunted scars The soft moss covers, and whose rare bazaars— That sold them Truth—new, wayward ohafferers shun For strange end impious markets. One b> one. Dimmed by an alien flame, the unwinking stars That cheered their vigils fade; till Death unbars To their bruised eyes his kind pavilion. 0 glory of the young day’s harbinger! Yet, lest our kindling pride too madly burn. And lusty boast our sicklier deeds outrun, Mark we tho portent, and forebode the year When dazed and blind we likewise, in our turn Old men, weave memories, sitting in the sun. —Phil. J. Fisher. THE FLOUNDER A flounder lays eight million eggs— A flounder’s an astoimder! We wish wo had a chance to trade Our chickens for a flounder. SUMMER FORECAST Summers dead and gone remind us We shall meet them, as of yore; Miss Slimly in lofty mountains. Miss Shapely where the billows roar! IN THE CHOLERA CAMP Chataldeja Lines, November, 1912. The sudden grip of unthinkable pain, A shudd’ring honor through nerve ana brain, A heav’niy respite—then hell again! A strong face set in grey fearsome hue, A high brow clammy with ice-clotted dew. The White Death smiling ’twist him and you. The black night mingling with glint of dawn. A spectral host of agony, drawn To ghastly shapes by woodland and lawn. And ever the White Death taking his toll Of Moslem warrior, and Christian soul. While bugles answer the drums’ shrill roll: “Allah 0 Allah!’’ the Moslem cries. The Christian curses his luck and dies. The warrior tugs at his sword—and sighs: And ever the White Death’s shadow will toss Its beckoning arms over Crescent and Cross. For his the-sure gain and theirs the sure loss, G.H.E.D.