POETS’ CORNER.

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 74, 18 June 1927, Page 25

POETS’ CORNER.

THE CROWNED HILLS OF SUMNER [Written for The Sun.l O the sea-washed air at Sumner foot As blue, as blue as now; And a lad’s love for a lily-slip. Airy-white as a sea-gull’s dip. Came tiding on to heart and lip— A man that dodders dim and mute Can still remember how — By the crowned hills of Sumner, Seventy years ago. O she, she was a bud of grace . A lily rooted up From a green land, a lily’s mother. Here in a yellow waste to smother. A child of the waste—l knew no other — Dreamed her here a woman’s place. The common hearth, the bit and sup, By the crowned hills of Sumner, Seventy years ago. But she—her doom was written small Upon the books of earth. The wind of Time she could not brave, She had no hold on land or wave. Her little, seaward, early grave But one remembers now, of all Who knew of her the dearth, By the crowned hills of Sumner, Seventy years ago. The lad, he lived the round of life, The round of roughened cheer. But a man that dodders dim and frail, When all is lived and lost, to hail The far-bound, homing, lingering sail. Dreams back to one that was not wife Nor aught but lily here, By the crowned hills of Sumner, Seventy years ago. JESSIE MAC KAY. Cashmere. ROAD-SONG. I Written for The Sun.[ Out of the city’s Uproarious crowding, Away from the heat of The sweltering street, We’ll End a retreat in The cool of the foothills. Where waterfalls plash and The beech tang is sweet. Far from the city’s Imprisoning walls and Its clamorous throng we Are gliding along. Hark to the speed-song — The beat of the engine, And wheels rushing onward Purposeful, strong. O’er the white roadway Triumphantly roaring We speed on the highways. The hedge dashing by. Threading the byways Sequestered and shady. The tappets click sweetly As onward we fly. Adrift in the heart of The blueness above us, White cloudlets straying Melt in their play. Alluring, away in The distance, the mountains White-peaked gleam coo/ in The shimmering day. Brown is the tussock-land, Yellow the gorse-busb; Blue is the dome of The green world we roam, Till through the gloaming Violet and dusky. Cold gleam the lamp lights The last league from home. N.G.C. Greendale.

THE GATES OF SLEEP. [Written for The Sun.] Now the dreams that come from, the ivory gate are false ; but those that come forth from the horn .gate are the true. — Virgil. Now twofold are the gates of Sleep From which the maiden dreams may roam And wistful-eyed dream children creep To make in empty hearts their home. One is a slender ivory arch. White poppies round about it wreathe And swart star-conquering legions march Triumphantly beneath. And there walk Queens whose lustrous eyes Draw those who deal with dreams to wait Lifelong beside the ivory gate That guards the shapes of Paradise. The other is a lowly thing. No slender spires climb above. Yet through it Vision's children wing To those the old gods love. So once I felt, the whole night long, Some tenderness draw very near, And slender fingers, light and strong, Suddenly touched my hair. And I believe in those veiled lands Where visions wander, two by two ; For none can know I love your hands But the old gods , and you. ROBIN HYDE. Hanmer Springs. THE LIGHTNING STAR. (Written for The Sun.] Why should I, gazing on you, hear fair sound And graciousness of music moving on In a slow pomp- and sweetness? I am gone To deeps where lightning scathes not; many a mound Of the dear dead covers my dead heart's ground. What star can shine these noonlost depths upon. Where cloudless day is but a shadow wan, And night a darkness in a darkness drowned? Away! Away! I do not know of such. With light and music what have I to do? ... . What! Can the darkness breed a light anew, Ait earthless music silence? *Tis the touch Of all s that underlies all melody Lives in your face, star of the lightning sky! % W. H. JOYCE . Christchurch. ~