Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, 29 September 1921, Page 24

Selected Poetry

To the Prime Minister In times not distant, not as yet called old, Yours was the ringing voice, attuned to reach The trodden and those, who trod them. Swift to impeach /' * Power that with Justice dwells not, you were bold In nimble assault upon the forts of Gold And camps of Privilege. Yours was that free speech , Feared in the palaces of greed, where each Dull lord of lucre lives to heap and hold. But, oh, sad change! Your prowess to-day is this— That you can gaze, and yet forbear to stir A finger, while your minions fierce and fell Shatter doomed Ireland's homes, and build in her A suburb of the great metropolis Of evil and woe, whose name on earth is Hell. —Sir William Watson, in the Daily News. N Two Ways of Love Why do you want to leave me, if you love me? Because I must, • . s The years will turn our lips and love to ruin, Beauty to dust. ' . *> Better to leave you while the world's a symbol Of this bright fire, So shall old age find brilliant and untarnished \ Our love's desire. Ah/ no, the-flame is nothing! For the forest Took years to grow, And in the ashes is the truth of beauty, And this I know. The bud is lovely, but the tree in winter, Tho' stark and bare, Knows all the earth knows, and no love is perfect ' Without despair. Too bright, too new, too shallow and unconscious Is young love's heat, Give me the love that knows the bitter wisdom Of love's Give me the love that grows, through time's own wisdom, More hard, more sweet. —Alice Corbin, in the Yale Review. + A Riddle The mild moon air of spring again Lapped shimmering in that sea-lulled lane, Hazel was budding; wan as snow • The leafless blackthorn was a-blow. A chaffinch clankt, a robin woke An eerie stave in the leafless oak. Green mocked at green lichen and moss The rain-worn slate did softly emboss. From out her winter lair, at sigh i Of the warm South wind, a butterfly . Stept, quaft her honey on painted. fan '!■: :\ Her labyrinthine flight \began. .\ Wondrously solemn, golden, and fair; "'■ ; j The high sun's rays beat everywhere; ■ / > Yea, touched my cheek and mouth, as if—- ' / ' -Equal with stone, tree Man 'twould give ; » Its light and life. 0 restless thought ■ '% '.»4 :.-' Contented not! ; With "Why" distraught. \ ' i .Whom asked you then your riddle small?— u ; : .: 5 "If hither came no man at all , v - W-* ■"''' •■ ■•;■•. "/'-■■": • ' '•' ;: :''^'v.';-\^.- ; \:',;"-"■.'•• '•" ; >- : ':;' ; -:' : . "Through this gray day-dream Cornish lane, 5 ' Would it mere blackened naught remain? Strives it its beauty: and v life to express T ; Only in human consciousness?'; ' /

Oh, rather, idly break he in f % To an Eden innocent of sin, V ! \ And, prouder than to be afraid, N I Forgets his Maker in the made. .Walter de la Mare, in The, Nation and the Athenceum. }:. * ! Rosary Time in Ireland At the fall of the night in Ireland when spring in the land is fair, * At the fall of the night in Ireland when passionate June is there, When woods are ruddy in autumn or hoary with winter's rime • , At the fall of the night in Ireland 'tis Rosary time. With book and beads in her fingers the mother goes to her place, The holy candle beside her, the peace of God in her face, And out of their chosen corners the voices of children chime At the fall of the night in Ireland at Rosary Time. *> : . / Outside the song of the robin is hushed in his- sheltered nest, The wing, with rainy sweetness, is sighing itself to rest, The world, with her old-time longing, swings low to a minor rhyme; At the fall of the night in Ireland at Rosary Time. Oh, many a dream of beauty shines up from the lowest sod, And many a golden duty binds men to the feet of God, But the sorest passion of living is stilled to a chord sublime At the fall of the night in Ireland at Rosary Time. —Teresa Brayton. W Dublin The lines below were written by the late Mrs Alfred Praga, and sent to L. V. during a visit to Dublin. Mrs Praga, who died last year, was a brilliant writer, a devout Catholic, and a warm friend to Ireland. She had never been to Ireland, but to her Dublin was a Holy City, and this explains the feeling of her verses. The cobble stones of . Dublin Are sad and harsh and grey ")•■"'' The cobble. stones of Dublin,. They scourge the feet all day. But, oh! if you could listen, 'Tis this you'll hear them say, Above the noise and clangor, Above the noonday heat : We guard the earth of Ireland From the tramp of Saxon feet; The dear brown earth of Ireland, From the. cruel Saxon feet." The beggar men of Dublin , They, plague one, night and day! The beggar maids of Dublin They'd coax your heart away! J But, oh! if you could listen, 'Tis this you'd hear them say: Look past our rags and squalor, Look past the outstretched palms, 'Tis One Whose wounds are red to see Is asking for your alms! For the beggar folk of Dublin That coax so, night and day, Will help you, if you'll let them, y" '_";, To .' make your soul' for aye." The Soggarth men of Dublin ,\ Go softly up and down • / • About their Master's business - ; (Some in habits, black or brown), " : To cheer the sick and dry the tears • / * That flow in Dublin town. - I » Oh, kneel and ask their blessing, ; ( - :' Kneel in the Dublin mud! ; For the Soggarth men of Dublin • • „ \ :'S v \-V'.--!.\-.^.They^giy(B' :; you, and have \ given, '.•; ;••■(■ [ c • J E'en.of their heartsV red blood, . •- x \\ ■ ■': Of their hearts' very blood! ■,-: ,♦- ■ >*-..-.■'-' -"'/. > —Anthony P.WfißTyinkthe Irish Catholic.