POETS’ CORNER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2580, 14 August 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

POETS’ CORNER.

THE SNOWSTORM. From out the North a wind blew, dampami cold, And .shifted leaden clouds across the sun, Whirling dry leaves adown tho dusty run, As dusk close-gathered over field and fold Then, from the murky sky were sudden ' doled A. few fine flakes of snow; and then tho dun And pallid waste grew thick, and naught could slum The driving storm that burst upon the the wold. All day the furious tempest followed high In air, and beat its . eddying masses hard Along the,hills and drifted through the lanes: At eventide the wind sank to a. sigh, And far and near lay purity unmarred. As Love lit up the western window panes.

—Charles W. Stevenson Springfield Republican.

MEMORY.

I stand beside the ocean of the Past, A diver. Pearls and hydras can X bring, Shells for the child and crystals for the

king. Prone on my reefs the sea-essaying mast And keels that dared the hurricane are

cast — Trophies of tides invincible that swing About the islands where the sirens

smg, The secret of whose song is mine at_last. Some shadow of the glory I restore, - Though wave and wind devour the Ships of Dreams ; For many mark me ere the fall of

night, When the surf’s sound is mighty on my shore, Singing, as wildly as my bosom gleanis The sea-dews and the rubies of the light. —George Sterling. Cosmopolitan. THE SONG OF THE VINE. Poet: 0 Vine, along my garden wall. Could I thy northern slumber break. And thee from wintry exile disenthrall. Where would thy spirit wake? Vine: I would wake at the hour of dawning in May in Italy, When rose-mists rise from the Magra’s valley plains In the field of maize and olives around Pontremoli.

When peaks grow golden and clear and the starlight wanes; I would wake to the dance of the sacred mountains boundlessly

Kindling their marble snows in the rite of fire, — To them my new-born Tendrils softly and soundlessly Would uncurl and aspire.

I would hang no more on thy wall a rusted slumberer. Listless and fruitless, strewiug the pathways cold; I would seem no more in thine eyes an idle cumberer, Profitless alien, bitter and sere and old. 11l some warm terraced dell where the Roman rioted, And still in tiers his stony theatres leaves, Would I festoon with lear-light his glory quieted And shade his throne with leaves. Doves from the mountain belfries would seek and cling to me To drink from the altar, beating the fragrant airs; Women from olived hillsides by turns would sing to me. Culling the olives or stooping afield in pairs ; On gala evenings the gay little carts of laborers, ' _ Swinging from axil os their horns against evil eye. And crowded with children, revellers, pipers, and taborers. Chanting, would pass me by.

—Herbert French. M'Clure's Magazine. SHADOWS. Shadows are but for the moment — Quickly past; And then the sun the brighter shines That it was overcast. For Light is Life! Gracious and sweet, The fair life-giving sun doth scatter blessinga With his light and heat— And shadows. But the shadows that come of the lifegiving sun Crouch at his feet. No mortal life but has its shadowed times— Not one f Life without shadow could not taste the full Sweet glory of the sun. No shadow falls, but there, behind it, stands The Light. Behind the wrongs and sorrows of life's troublous ways Stands Bight. . —John Oxenbam. “My Lady of Shadows.” FOR FIFTY YEARS. For fifty years together. For fifty golden years. Sharing each other’s ioys Sharing each other’s tears.