Selected Verse.

Waikato Times, Volume 107, Issue 17976, 22 March 1930, Page 1 (Supplement)

Selected Verse.

A HYMN OF COMFORT. It singeth low in every heart, We- hear it each and all, A song of those who answer not, However w T e may call : They throng the silence of the breast, We see them as of yore, The kind, the brave, the true, the sw'eet, Who w r alk with us no more. ’Tis hard to take the burden up. When these have laid it down: They brightened all tihe-joys of life, They softened every frown: But 0 ’tis good to think of them, When we are troubled sore; Thanks be to God that such have been, Though they are here no more. More homelike seems t.he vast unknown, Since they -have entered there; To follow they were not so hard, Wherever they may fare; They, cannot, be where God is not, On any sea. or shore; Whate’er betides, thy love abides, Our God, forevermore. —-Rev. John White Chadwick (1840-1904). DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. They say that dead men tell no tales 1 Except of barges with red sails, And sailors mad for nightingales; Except of jongleurs stretched at ease Beside old highways through the .frees; Exce-pt of dying moons that break; The heart-s of lads who he awake; Except the fortresses in shade. And heroes crumbled and betrayed. But dead men tell no tales, they say! Except old tales that burn away The stifling tapestries of day; Old tales of life, of love and hate, Of time and space, and will, and fate. “OH, IS IT WROUGHT —” “Oh is it wrought of the sunbeam’s grace The bright, the glittering hair That clasps in its god your delicate face Than springtime flowers more fair. <> My longing hovers around the blaze As a moth near a flame will dance, Till, heedless of life and death, I gaze Half-blinded as in a trance. “My thoughts are whirled like a shattered barque Where the shimmering surges flow, And the pilot knows not day from dark, Or the port where the ship would go. “ The years pass by, but I never care, Time brings not relief to me. The distaff that spun your shining hair Spun the thread of my destiny.” —Ernst, Von Der Recke. WORLD’S AMAZING BEAUTY. “ The world’s amazing beauty would make us cry Aloud; but something in it, strikes us dumb. Beech-forests drenched in sunny floods Where shaking rays and shadows hum. The unrepeated aspects of the sky, Clouds in their lightest and their wildest moods, Bare shapes of hills, .Tune grass in flower, The sea in every hour .... “ Gulls standing still above their images On strips of shining sand While evening in a haze of green Half-hides The calm receding tides— What in the beauty we have seen in these Keeps us still silent? Something we have not seen?” —Eleanor Farjeon. mpmtF, JSgc.thec elaoin shrdlu cmfe

SPIRIT AND REALITY. Silence, silence —and trembling. Not a sound. The arch of Heaven is heavy with its stars. This Is the universe of life and death, The sole Reality, the shining All How many generations now are dust, , That looked upon this thing! How many more Shall look upon you, everlasting truth, After these eyes are sealed! and shall you burn, Altered no whit, over me altered? No— For the brief spirit that regards you here Gives glory to your light. 0 trembling flames, Reticent, loveliness, august design! You lived in me and here in me you die, Losing once more the meaning of your self. —John Ha'll WheelockTHE LOCKED HOUSE. When we are gone from home same da„>s, I think, , . Our dream-selves, our dim counterparts are there Yet lingering on the silence; chair by chair , . .. At, the small table do they ea., and drink. The ghost that’s I with silly humorous air Banters the ghost that’s you to angei ® brink; , . With phantom laughter does our china clink , ... And moonbeams fondle your imagined hair. A shell, where sound and colour linger, dreams, . , , Lonely to all the tides of night, our home, , . , While the moon dances her enchanted round; It is a gull-forsaken beach whose bareness teems With memory, of their shadows, a brai where roam The dear, dim images of touch and sound. „ , —Geoffrey Johnson. the coach of life. “Though often somewhat heavy-freighted, The coach rolls at any easy pace, And Time, the coachman, grizzly-paten, But smart, alert, is in his place. “ Noon finds us done with reckless daring, And shaken up. Now care’s the ruleDown hills, through gulleys roughly faring, We sulk, and cry: ‘Hey, easy, fool. " The coach rolls on, no pitfalls dodgingToward evening, more accustomed grown, We drowse, while to the night's dark lodging . „ Old coachman Time drives on, drives on. —Alexander Pushkin. FAITH, HOPE, LOVE. « On lowly roofs falls the sun’s friendly light, The darkness disappears, like some sacred wraith; . . The lifted glance reaches the mountain s height: Lo, it is faith. “ A bird’s song cheers the lonely passerby— Some bird that does not fear the sky s wide scope, But sings upon the bough, and soars on high: Lo, it is hope. “ \ flaming spark from God, the Eternal Light, Firing the vast, expanse of heaven above, Kindles a thousand worlds before our sight: Lo, it is love.’’ —Henry Bett, M.A.