Selected Verse

Waikato Times, Volume 124, Issue 20821, 3 June 1939, Page 15 (Supplement)

Selected Verse

OUT IN THE FIELDS The little cares that fretted me I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the w’inds at play; Among the lowing of the herds. The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees. The foolish fears of what may happen, I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the husking of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born— Out in the fields with God. —E. B. Browning. FEARLESS WINGING Into Niagara’s abyss of blackness, Into its cavernous chaos, I saw birds winging. Sweeping down Through the mist Of its mighty waters, Undaunted by the roar, Unmindful of the churning, Of the terror of its power, On sure pinions And happy in flight They dipped and soared and Mounted, upward and upward, Into the light And the rainbow Above them. —Jean M. Snyder. POEM So rooted in a soundless trance, So rimed so frosted fast these boughs—■ To any passing here by chance This misty day no glint avows There will be blossoms here, and ploughs May turn the fallow, but these boughs In their own thoughts their flowerings house. Ah yes, there will be blossoms here, The almond blow to life once more, The pear-tree building tier on tier Mock at these memories that store The mind with death, and the fresh year Spike with sharp light the lily’s spear, While I stand breathless, gazing here. —T. St. Quintin HilL

SCOTCH HEATHER I hold all Scotland in an earthern pot—• Her still blue lakes, Her wild and boggy moors— The music of forgotten troubadours May any moment tremble on the air From tiny bells of heather Hanging there On a green plant Beside my open door. I wonder! Would I recognise the airs— Old tunes my fathefs knew and loved so well— Would they seem strange Or would they lead my thoughts To where the winds blow wildly On some moor And heather flowers in Scotland As of yore ? Something stirs deep within my heart today : It is white heather blooming by my door Reminding me (as it has done before) Of stern-faced men who wandered on the heath Stopping, perhaps, to gaze upon the sight Of the wide moors clothed suddenly in white. I know myself a Scot On this spring day: I know the moors in some unquestioned way— The moors my fathers must have wandered o’er— This plant of waxy heather brings to me The wind-swept moors That lie beyond the sea. —Eleanor G. R. Young. GOSPEL ACCORDING TO YOU You are writing a book, A chapter each day— By the deeds that you .do And the words that you say. Men are reading this book, Whether faithless or true— Friend, what is the Gospel According to You? —Anon.