Selected Verse

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20266, 7 August 1937, Page 15 (Supplement)

Selected Verse

THE PICTURE. Gardener: “We shall have to cut you down.” Tree: “But why? I have been standing here for many years.” Gardener: “We are landscaping around this mansion. You do not fit into the picture. You’re too big.” Tree: “ Maybe your picture is too small.” —Arthur B. Rhinow. THE CARPENTER. Hia great form stooped throughout the sunny day, Above the timbers as he slowly wrought The long, low manger, where, when herd boys brought The cows at eventide, the spicy hay Would taste as sweet to them as grass of May. He visioned, as he worked, their tender eyes, Their perfumed mouths, their deep, contented sighs— Their young that, in the Spring, beside them lay. He loved his task. He loved to cut and fit Each fragrant, fresh-hewn log of fir or pine, With patience and with care, and bit by bit, He built a manger for the gentle kine. He did not dream as, tired, he homeward trod, That he also had built a bed for God. —Adaline H. Tatman.

TIRED DREAMER. The sun never sleeps at eventide In a gilded bed in the west; The stars and moons forever race ; ; And never stop to rest. Death takes no holiday and time Never halts in its track, Weary dreamer, dare not rest. With the woes of men on your bacm The kingdom of God within you flies. Its bright, brave flags unfurled; Rest not until those banners blow Over the wounded world! —Earl Bigelqw Brown. SINGING BRANCHES. Ancient Arabians used the boughs of trees, To make their lutes, on which the birds had sung, Feeling that music still about them clung And influenced the wood, and only these Could make a perfect instrument to please The true musician’s ear, that sylvan tongue Thrilling the dead wood which had throbbed among The living, singing branches in the breeze. Unless the spirit stir me from above How can I sing? How could the bloom bear fruit Without the bee? My music must be mute As bird-forsaken boughs, unless it move My thoughts to song, inspiring them to prove As live with lyrics as the Arabian lute. —P. E. Noble.