POET'S CORNER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2622, 2 October 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

POET'S CORNER.

SPRING’S HERALDS. Spring’s heralds have gone forth to-day, The sol test, sweetest airs a-blowing She surely will not long delay. Spring's heralds have gone forth today : i hey fluttered through my garden-way, And set the green things ail agrowing. .spring's heralds have gone forth to-day, J lie softest, sweetest airs a-blowing. (Elizabeth B. Piercy, in “Windsor Magazine.”) HARD TRUTH. Ah. bad you loved me long ago, Time had been other for us twain: i 1 his comes too late, a blinding blow That stings my whole life into pain!! Why did you rouse me from my sleep: 1 Dead silence had become you best. Now your awakened voice will keep Perpetual murny round my rest. Dear, do you see die end of this, Or are you blind, for old love’s sake;' Suppose we meet, join hands, and kiss, Drown all regret and, smiling, take Love’s best and worst, and be at one? You hold my hands; but here’s the sting— It means, before all this be done, A ruined troth, a broken ring! (C.K.8.. in the “Daily Chronicle.”)

POT POURRI. Love is like the roses, Fair and sweet in June. When in garden closes * Birds: are all a-tune. Pluck the flower —it grows for you. Blushing ‘neath its veil of dew. Love is like the roses, Fair and sweet iri June. Love is like the roses — How the color pales! From the garden closes Gone the nightingales; Dim the petals are, and dry; Say not. rose, that love must die! Love is like the roses— How the color pales 1 Love is like the roses! Still their fragrance stays. Spite of leafless closes Through the wintry days. Rose-leaves in your china bowl — Love slid treasured in your soul! Love is like the roses — Still its fragrance stays. —Catherine Grant Farley. Chambers’s Journal. THE SdfcsG OF THE MOTOR CAR'. V ... .yd || (By James Ball Naylor.) I’m the coy and ingenuous toy of the strenuous Era of Civilised Man, I'm the truly respectable, duly delectable Outcome of project and plan ; i And my gassy and tkunderful, massy and wonderful _ jl Shape splits the landscape in twain, -| As I race where the fountain speaks „ grace to the mountain pesiks— .1 Then over valley and plain. ( Oh! it's —“honk, honk-.-ank!” —is the song I sing . , f In the cool of the morning gray, And it's —“honk, honk-honk!” —is the-y raucous ring Of my voice at the close of day; And the echoes wake —and the echoes/) quake,. _ | In their .sylvan retreats afar; For I am the fizzing, the buzzing, and whizzing, Redoubtable Motor Car!

I'm the snappiest, pluckiest, happy-go-luckiest Work of Man’s reckless career —- The machine of divinity green asinmlty Never can conquer or steer; And there's never a note or bar honked by the Motor Car Rounding an angle or curve. But it cheats the pedestrian—beats the equestrian— Out of his poise and his nerve. For it's—"honk, honk-honk!” —is the song I sing In the Faze of the noonday And it's —"honk, honk-honk!” —:g the raucous ring Of my voice in the starry night; And the echoes quake and shiver and shake. In their rocky retreats afar; For I am the puffing, the chugg.ug, and chuffing And masterful Motor Car! Through the liaze oi the dreamiest days of the gleamiest Summers 1 speed to and tro. In the height of the glorious, mighty, uproarious Tempest I come and I go; I'm the tool and tho servant, the cool and observant Rare creature of project and plan. And tho coy and ingenuous toy of tne strenuous Era of Civilised Man.

And it's—"honk, honk-honk,!” —is the song 1 sing In the cool of the owning's hush. And it’s —"honk, honk-lionk! —is the raucous ring Of mv voice in the morning’s blush; And the* echoes wake—and the echoes shake, In their woody retreats afar; For I am the purring, the whizzing, ] and whirring And marvellous Motor Car! THE FLUTES OF SPRING. The flutes of spring are all in tune And playing everywhere. Oh. crystal-clear and ripple-toned They sound along the air. The long arpeggios of the sun Sweep over lull and plain, And in the misty valleys sound The runs and trills of rain. Wild melodies of strolling wiud s Go swift across the sky, Tho young-leafed wood is loud w itn calls, . Where nesting robins fly. Some spirit roams upon the earth, ; New-born, wing-sandaled, free, And for him, where he strays, the flutes Pour out their melody. Then listen at the tunc of them That May at April's birth Whose call is to the waking heart From the deep soul of earth. *—Ethel B. Howard. Scribner’s Magazine, p