Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 2516, 25 August 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

THE LARK'S SONG. Love, I will go and wake the morn, Lingering yonder, drowsily dreaming, Sing, 0 for the golden glory born, When she sets the east a-gleaming I Love, I out o' the world. And cry, how one doth love mo I" Sing, O for the great inists neath me curled, And tho sun in his hall above me! Sing, 0 for these men that creep and crawl, They shall catch some crumbs of my silver gladness, Sing, 0 fur the world clings to them all. And the world is weighted with sadness I

Lifo unto them is bitter sweet, I soar where a shadow may not reach me, . . t .. Sing, U for the sinless spirits X meet, Sing, 0 for the songs they teach me. When sunshine comes and fields are fair. And men for all their bonds fall to dancing, Sing, 0 for a freer, finer air, Where the clearest light is glancing ! And when the sun is hidden in a shroud, And wearily go all wingless mortals. Sing, O for that other sido of the cloud, And the shine of the golden portals! Sing, 0 ! Sing O! I love! I live ! I drift with a singing rmht into heaven ! Ah ! love, it is these soul-sounds that give Life life : they are Clod's leaven ! T. W. H. CItOSLAND. A GROWL. Though it fills me with confusion, I must break tho fond illusion That the sex of our adoring Never givo lis cause to growl, For in curtain public places — Spito of handsotno dress and faces— Their supremely selfish actions Raise a universal howl. When the train is just a-going, Like a porpoise, puffing, blowing, Comes milady, and when seated — i Ere sho glances here and thereDoes this truly blooming vision, With a fatal, grim decision, Raise her window to its utmost, Letting in the draughty air. Though the day be cold and dreary, And our bodies chill and weary ; Though the clouds of dust offensive Blind our eyes and stop the breath, Yet the lovely, cruel creature. Without ever changing feature, Fills the hearts of all around her With the fear of ling'ring death. Costly furs may be about her, Or sho may be out without her Lightest wrap, and look as tender As the flowers that bloom in Spring— All the same she's tough as leather, And we often wonder whether Sho's a young disguised volcano Or some other senseless thing. There are babies, fretful, crying ; There are odors, speech-defying; There are faces as repulsive As the imps of darkness wear ; Yet we care not to abjure them, For we rather would endure them Than the awful, awful woman Who thus drives us to despair. 1)k Lancky Stone.