WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8343, 1 February 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet s pen Turns them to shapes.” THE CRIPPLE The little days speed by. The weary nights lag on; I watch them as I lie. And count them, one by one. I count them, one by one And make another mark; Day after day the sun. But God! at night, the Dark. Night after night the Dark, And with the Dark . . ■ despair! ' When all the earth is stark My ghastly dreams are there. My awful dreams are there Until the night is gone. And creeping up the stair. The dawn comes, grey and wan. When morning’s light is wan One with the world am I, The little days speed on. But ah! the nights lag by. —MONA MACK AY. “The Lone Hand.” VOX INFIRMITATIS Not for our soon-forgotten dayr Not that our looks are slow and blind. That Thou hast set the mountain way For lame and stumbling feet to find. In fiands too small hast lain the sword — Not for our weakness spare us. Lord. But for our single day of might. When, long remote, the tempests blow. The hidden altar flames to sight. And high the immortal beacons show. When these great hours shall lie forgot. Have mercy. Lord, and spare us not. Have mercy, when the glassy tide Stirs not the stiller haven's sleep; Our coward prayers be then denied. The harbour with Thy surges sweep. And hail into the clamorous seas The ships that shelter there at ease. ■ Now in mine hour of strength I cry The unfettered soul’s discerning prayer; Though pain and fear his company. The living burden grant me bear. When .weakness shall the words unsay, 0 Thou that hearest, turn away. 0 Giver of the burning dream To things of clay that fall in dust, ■ Since for no merit fell the gleam, Neither for strength we hold the trust. Not for unworthincss deny The armour and the battle-cry. —LUCY EYTTELTON. "The Nation." GREY (From the German of Irene Forbes Morse.) Gowns of soft grey I now will vvear. Like willow trees all silvery fair; My love, he loves grey. Like clematis, with . silken down. Which lend thedew-spfenthedge a crown; My love, he loves grey. Wrapt in a dream, I watch where slow Within the fire the wood-sparks glow; My love thou art away. . . . The soft grey ashes fail and shift. Through silent spaces smoke-clouds drift. And I, too —i love grey. 1 think of pearls, where grey lights dream, Ui alders, wnere the mist-veils gleam: My love, thou are away. . . . Of grey-haired men of high renown Whose faded locks were hazel-brown. And I, too—love grey. The little grey moth turns its flight Into the room, allured by light: My love, he loves grey; 0 little moth, we are like thee, \Ve all fly round a light we see In swamp or Milky Way! —H.F. “Westminster Gazette.” OF THOSE WHO WALK ALONE Women there are on earth, most sweet and high. Who lose their own, and walk bereft and lonely. Loving that one heart until they die. Loving it only. And so they never see beside them grow Children, whose coming is like breath of flowers, Consoled by subtler loves the angels know Through childless hours. Good deeds they do: they comfort and they bless In duties others put oS till the morrow; Their look is balm, their tonch is tenderness To all in sorrow. Betimes the world smiles at them, as t’were shame. The maiden guise, long after youth’s departed. But in God’s hook they bear another name “The faithful hearted.” Faithful in life, and faithful unto death Such souls, in sooth, illumine with lustra splendid That glimpsed, glad land wherein the vision saith. Earth’s wrongs are ended. —RICHARD BURTON. “The iCentnry." NOW When I was in yon town, and had Stones all round me. hard and cold. My flesh was firm, my sight was keen. And still I felt my heart grow old. But now, with this green world around, Bv my great love for it! I swear. Though my flesh shrink, and my sight fail My heart will not grow old with care.’ When I do hear these joyful birds, I cannot sit with my heart dumb; 1 cannot walk among these flowers. But I must help the bees to hum. My heart has echoes for all things. The wind, the rain, the bird and bee; ’Tie I that—now—can carry Time, Who in that town must carry me. I see not now the great coke fire With ten men seated there or more. Like frogs on logs; and one man fall Dying across the boarded floor. 1 see instead the flowers and cloudy I hear'the rills, the birds a,nd begs; The squirrel flies before the storm He makes himself in leafy trees. —WILLIAM H. DAVIES. “The Nation.”