WITH THE MUSE

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8361, 22 February 1913, Page 9

WITH THE MUSE

"And ,as imagination bodies forth The forms ot things unknown, the poet s pen Turns them to shapes.” THB SMALL DREAMS When I was a young girl I dreamed great dreams Of giant castles fashioned on a hill of gold; Tho gold is but a gorse-bush, and haply it seems My castle’s but a cottage, now that I am old. Now that lam old, I dream small dreams Of tiny feet that falter, and tiny songs 1 unsung, Though 1 heard tho trumpet blare and saw rod gleams From the flying feet of Cherubim, when X was young. When I was a young girl I dreamed long dreams. Of ever flowing rivers and earth and sky unrolled; My sky’s a window square, the rivers are but streams, And the earth is a hedged meadow, now that 1 am old. Now that I am old, I dream short dreams Of email warm woods and, little paths among; I who saw stretched shadows and. the sun’s long beams On the cedar trees of Lebanon, when, I was young. And youth is a memory with its long, deep dreams, its venture unadventured, the glory still untold; , , But I can keep for ever, unashamed it seems. The gwiail dear dreams of comfort, now that I am old. —FRANCES CHESTERTON. “Westminster Gazette." ) A RHYME OF THE ROAD I bless that man whoso kindness set These avenues of shade. And may his place in Heaven bo yet By many a green arcade! The trees of Heaven are dark and wide; •Sweet shade have they and full; Our God Himself at eventide Walks there in shadow cook Now may He pause mid heavenly folk; Beckon that man and say: "Friend, they are good, the beech and oak You planted on a day." And by his palm-tree and his well Hay angel faces lean; Ami may he hear Heaven’s sacring-bell From out a leafy screen. Now for the acorn smooth and round, And the beech-mast so small. His bed be made on the holy ground. Where dews of Heaven will fall! 0 may the River of Info flow soft N Over its jewelled stones. And may the birds in boughs aloft Sing well their Lands and Nones. Yea, he he keeper of those trees. And may he rest below. Who gives to weary folk such ease. This man of long ago. And may he shelter golden birds. And white lambs on the grass. Who tempers still for flocks and herds This sky of molten brass. —KATHARINE TYNAN. "Spectator." BE LA-Vra* MONEY-MAKING. They’re neighbourly in Ireland, and if they've little store They'd share it with a neighbour, and there’s still the open door. For him that turns the poor away may turn away unfed The very Son of God Himself, as He begs for bread.' , They aren’t making money of the water and the land. Please God they’ll learn no'stinting but keep the open hand. And what they lose they’re saving and what they give they hold. Ah, God help the foolish people with the yellow goldl The sun upon your shoulders ’ll warm you through and through. And souls are more than bodies in the place we’re travellin’ to, t Ooh, take a sate, my travelled man, the sunny side the ditch. And be lavin’ money-makin’ to the foolish rich 1 —KATHARINE TYNAN. "Eye Witness." THE GREAT QUESTION. My heart is weary with the world’s distress; The cry of those who struggle in night. Oh, Lord, who cent Thy Son for our redress. Wo pray Thee as of old, “Let there be fight!" 1 would not ask Thee "why." nor pierce the veil: ... All that I long for is to know, behind The torture, and the terror/ and the wail Of human woe,. there is no cruel, blind Unreasoning Chance, that hurls ns here and there. Victims of an insensate Tyranny; X would not ask the Cause, but this my prayer— To know there is a Cause for Misery. Could I but see the working of Thy Hand I should be willing not to understand 1! —C. R. ROBINSON. "Call of the Brotherhood." AFTERGLOW. Have yon ever heard, in tho lonesome night. The call of the wind-swept sea, Migaty and strong, in the great sea song. Ever pitched in a minor key? Have you ever stood on a barren plain When the red sun sank below The curve of the world, and the night was hurled Like a pall o er the afterglow? Have yon ever seen a single leaf Alone in the wintry blast, lake an old man, gray, outliving his day. With his heart in the wistful past? Then surely you know of the sombre things , , Wrich God in His wisdom sends To turn men's thoughts into kindlier vein, , , . - . When the day’s mad labour ends. —J, WALTER BALED. ■"Stylus."