WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8349, 8 February 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, tho poet's pen. Turns them to shapes." THB FOUNTAIN Into the sunshine Full of the light, Beapmg and flashing From mom till night. Into the moonlight Whiter than snow. Waving so flower-like When the winds blow! Into tb© starlight Rushing in spray. Happy at midnight. Happy by day! Ever in motion. Blithesome and cheery. Still climbing heavenward. Never aweary. Glad of all weathers. Still, seeming beet. Upward or downward Motion thy rest! Full of a nature Nothing can tame. Changed every moment. Ever the same. Ceaseless aspiring. Ceaseless content. Darkness or suns tuna Illy element; Glorious fountain! Bet my heart bo Fresh, changeable, constant, Upward like thee! —Janies Russell Bo well. THE PLAINS ‘ How' one loves them. These wide horizons; whether Desert or sea, — ... Vague and vast and infinite; faintly clear— Surely, hid in the far away, unknown. “There," Xae the things so longed for and found not, found not. here. Only where some passionate, level land Stretches itself in reaches of golden sand, Only where the sea-line is joined to the sky-line, clear. Beyond the curve of ripple or white foamed prest,—-, Shall the weary-eyes*; Distressed by the broken skies,— Broken by minaret, mountain or towering tree, — Shall the weary eyes be assuaged,—be assuaged,—and rest. —Laurence Mope. NORA CRIONA I’ve looked him round, and looked him ,-through, r , -t Bmow-everything-'-that he'”will do Xn suoh'a case, and such a case: And when a frown comes on his face I docket it, and when a smile, I trace its sources in a while. H© cannot do a thing but I Peep and find the reason why. For I love him, and I seek Every evening in the week To peep behind his frowning eye. With little query, little pry. And make him, if a woman can. Happier, than any.man. . . Yesterday he —gripped her tight. And cut her throat—and serve her right. —James Stephens. THE POET He measures facts by a gleam o’ the moon. And calendars days by dreams; He values less than-'a wild bird’s tune The world of- mortal schemes: He dons the pack of the Work-and-Wait,. On the trail o fthe Never-Sure, And whistles a song as he faces Fate To follow the far-off lure. He says a word to the butterfly. And its mottled dream is his; He whispers the bee, and it makes reply With a thought like a honeyed kiss; He speaks the bird, and he speaks the snake, Arid, the ant in its house of sand. And their guarded wisdom is his to take. And their secrets to understand. He shares his soul with tho wayside rose. His heart with the woodland weed. And he knows the two as himself he knows. And the thoughts with which they plead: To him they speak in confidence. And he answers them with love. And hand to hand with their innocence Strikes out for tho trail above. Sworn comrade he of the rooks and trees. Companion boon of tho ‘brooks; Through which hoary tribes he hears and sees The things that are not in books: He goes his way to do and dare. Led on by firefly gleams. And lays him down with never a care By the camp-fire of his dreams. —Madison Cawera. THOUGHTS On Be-visiting a Centre of Commerce where* a vast Cathedral Church is being Erected. City of merchants, lords of trade and gold. Traffickers great as they that bought and sold When ships of Tarshish came to Tyro, of old; City of festering streets by Misery trod. Where half-fed, half-clad children swarm unshod. While thou dost rear thy splendid fane to God: O rich in fruits and grains and oils and ores. And all things that the feastfnl Earth outpours. Yet lacking leechcraft for thy leprous sores! Heal thee betimes, and cleanse thee, lest in ire . He whom thou mock’st with pomp of arch and spire . . Come on thee sleeping, with a scythe of fixe. Let nave and transept rest awhile; but when Thou hast done His work who lived and died for men. Then build His temple on high—not, not till then. —William Watson, The "Nation."