Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2262, 8 January 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

[RIGHTS BESERVED.I SUMMER'S FAREWELL. I am going , , I am suing from the mountain and the plain, I am going, I am going with my sunshine and my rain ; My tender roseate morning light Must fade from sea and shore. My footsteps, lit with dewdrops bright, Shall press the world no more. I am goinsr, I am going with my fields of golden grain, With my flowers that sleep beneath the moon and drink the pearly rain ; From the shadowed woods with green leaves cool My song must die away. And silver stream and sun killed pool Reflect no more my ray. I am going, lam going, with my evening's perfect rest, With my crimson clouds that float across the fading west; With my purple twilight shades, With my rainbow circled sky, With my breeze that whispers through the glades Its dulcet melody, I am going, I avn going, with my peaceful glorious nights, With my leafy halls and dim arcades that the misty moonshine lights, Where elves may dance beside the stream To the water's tinkling , tune, And tender lovers sigh and dream Beneath my silver moon. I am going, I am going from the mountain and the plain, I am going, I am going with my sunshine ■ and my rain ; Far through the storm-lit western gate I fly as eve creeps on, And when the moon breaks desolate, Sweet Summer will be gone. —Caroline A. O'Melia.

IN THE VALE OF SEIIRAZ. Alone in the Vale of Shiraz grows, Near the bulbul's bower, a fair white rose. Morning aud evening ihe bulbul sips A drop of dew from the rose's lips. Then all the tremulous air he fills With the passionate beauty <>f his trills, But the rose blooms on as cold and pale As the snows on the mountains above the vale. One d;.»y the rapturous draught may kill, And the bulbul's throbbing heart be still; Will that pure white rose fool one thrill of pain When the silent eventide comes again? THE SONGS WE USED TO SING. Sing me the songs we used to sing In the happy days of old, When the hawthorn boughs were white with Spring And the meadows full of gold. Sing me the songs we used to sing Round the ruddy Winter blaze ; Oh, darling, I fain would hear once more The songs of those happy days ! Sing me the songs we used to sing With the children at our knees, For my very heart-strings seem to cling Konnd those old sweet melodies. Sing to me—l can sing no more, Though I were ever so fain. For my singing ditys are long since o'er Aud never will come again. Yet, ah, sing not —it would be so sad To hear one voice alone, When so many made the whole air glad In the bright da)'s that are gnne, And iny yearning heart would wake in pain From its hard-won cairn and peace ! Since the old days never can come again, Let the old songs also cease. —Shirley Wynne.