Poets’ Corner

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 151, 16 September 1927, Page 12

Poets ’ Corner

CHOPIN, OPUS 10, ETUDE NO. 3 (Written for THE SUN.) The waxen grace of freesias, marblccold, Blowing sweet odours down the winds of spring ; Dim moon-drenched flowers, and ghostly charactery Of shadoivs on pale walls and slumbering eaves; . A glassy shy, filled vnth the pageantry Of tumbled clouds that move lilce whitelimbed gods About the idle south; over the hill A swarm of stars, like frozen, golden bees ; And sleepy violets lying among their leaves, Lulled by the music of soma strange, grave dream; A little wind that trembles on the stream, Rustles and zvhispers, creeps among the trees, Sighs and murmers . . . murmurs . . . and is still . A. R. D. FAIRBURN. New Lynn. GOSSAMER (Written for THE SUN.) Dreams are like a gossamer, Woven in a day . . . Touch them with your finger-tips, The fabric falls away. Life is a fantastic web Shining in the sun; Blunderbusses break the strands Industry has spun. Sleep is in the chrysalis Silvered *neath the onoon — Faith hanging by a thread In a frail cocoon. Men go the common round Of unenlightened things, But spider folk make gossamer , And butterflies grow wings. —WINIFRED S. TENNANT. Auckland. THE CRAZED PHILOSOPHER (Written for THE SUN.) The poor crazed philosopher Sitting in his chair, Is maundering dogmatically Against Voltaire. Misty r eyed and jabbering With vapours in his head. In dim array before him jjass Vague figures of the dead. Realities are dreams . he says. And dreams substantial things. And from a cloud before him, Lavinia Fenton sings. My misty-eyed philosopher, In your dreams bioicing by, You hare found a surer joy Than mortals such as I. —IAN DONNELLY. Auckland.

SONG. [TVn7/en for The San.] Once a nightingale sang on a hickorytree. And his song was as sad as a song could e'er be; And he sang of a queen And a prince that have been, Ter-whee, ter-whee. On a hickory-tree. The moon was a slipper of silver and milk. And the mist of the night was mf gossamer silk; And the nightingale sang With a bitter-sweet pang, Ter-whee, ter-whee, On a hickory-tree. And when he had finished his sweet tale of sadness, He laughed at his woe and began one of gladness; And he sang of a kiss That knew nothing but bliss. Ter-whee, ter-whee, On a hickory-tree. PETER BROOKE. Christchurch.