STRAY VERSE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3181, 29 March 1911, Page 8

STRAY VERSE.

A BATHING BELLE

She dons a bathing suit of blue, And down the beach she goes, With little giggles of dlelight, To wet her dainty toes. She dabbles in the briny pools, She wades along the sand. She >races with the merry waves. And vows its simply grand. She lets the ripples of the surf Around her ankles play, And splashes in the pearly foam. And frolics with the spray; She counts the silver sails that pass Against the distant sky. And - dances with the billows bright—■ But keeps her powder dry. —N.Y. “Times.” “A” WAS AN ALIEN. A is an Alien, fresh from the boat, B is the Bomb carried under his coat. Cis the Crime, by which shortly he earns D—Deportation—from which he returns E’s the East End, where his exploits are planned, F is the folly of letting him land. G is a government, lax as can be, H a Home Secretary, on the spot he. I’s Immigration of all the world’s scum, J is the Joke —till the casualties come! Iv is the King we endanger, while L Stands for the Lies that the immigrants tell. M is the Murder that- opens our eyes, N is the News that is “such a surprise.” O’s’ just the Opening runaways need l , P’s the Political motives they plead. —From ‘An Up-to date Alphabet-,’ in ‘London Opinion.’ THE GRAVE OF KEATS. , Where silver swathes of newly fallen ■hay Fling up their incense to the Roman sun; Where violets spread their dusky leaves and run In a dim ripple, and a glittering bay Lifts overhead liis living wreath j where day Burns fierce upon his endless night and none Can whisper to him of the' thing he won, Love-starved young Keats hath cast his gift of clay. And still the little marble makes a moan Under the scented l shade; one nightingale With many a meek and mounring monotone Throbs of his sorrow; sings how oft men fail And leave their dearest light-bringers alone To shine unseen, and all unfriended pale. / —Eden Philpotts in “Wild Fruit.” THE WORD. There c-arne a word from yesterday Through a world of graver imatteis, A weary truant from far away (Bike a little, lost love in tatters), And this was all that it brought to say Through the gtoom of the gray December : “Oh, there once was a morning in May :—in May— Remember!”

In it came as a beggar might, Fearful of scorn and, of chiding, Shrinking from hearth and from can-die-light (Like a little, lost love ill hiding), But I drew it close from cold andi night, And I answered without regretting: “I have tried and tried, hut I. never am quite i Forgetting!” Theodosia. Garrison. . ‘ ‘Lippincott’s Magazine.’ ’