STRAY YERSE.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3315, 6 September 1911, Page 8

STRAY YERSE.

LOVE AND DEATH

Love with his flaming wings forever beateth 1 At the fast-barred doors of Death s abode; With yearning lips and longing eyes entreateth That vainly life to man should not be showed.

From earliest ages of the world’s creation — From the first silent dawn or gleaming light, . , Lovo still hath sought in patient supplication „ Freedom for men —the vassals or Death’s might.

Ypa! at the last, the hands of Love shall sever The bonds whereby tho soul of man is bound : .. _ The gates of Hell shall not prevail for ever — 1 „ Immortal joys, sought, longed ror, shall he found. —John Beresford. —“Westminster Gazette. ’ ’

THE PATHS OF LONG AGO. The wind-swept paths of long ago— They coax us, coax us all the while, With olden blossoms all aglow And roses blazing mile on mile. Out of to-day they have their start From bare, bleak places were we stand, Into the reaches of the heart, Into the golden yesterland. The nodding grasses bent above The dim, worn pathways up the hill — And all of laughter and of love Is whispering about them still; They wound their way beside the stil* G 3 XXI They hide themselves within the wood And as the pathway of a dream, Each faded softly where we stood. Through thickets where the berries grew, Through orchards browsing in perfume, Through quiet pasture lands, and through The wilder ways of tangled bloom The olden pathways wound and went, And we look back, away, away To where our yesterdays are blent In the soft haze of work and play. And hut in dreams we foot them all — The paths we knew of old so well; The paths of quail and robin-call, The paths whose charms no words can tell. We see them drooping down the lull. We see them loafing on the brook, We see them where -the trees ar still In every shadowed forest nook. The wind-swept paths of long ago— They coax us. coax us all the while; And we would fain arise and go . Through all the old days, mile on mile. Out of to-day they have their start, From barren spaces where we stand, Into the cloisters of the heart, Into the golden yesterland. Wilbur D. Nesbit, —The “Argonaut.” FTLM-Y. In days when we thought less of ease, If there was any sort of show, We’d shove and hustle. push and squeeze To get into the foremost row. But nowadays we’re too refined With rule, rough crowds to try and cope. We sigh, and say: “Well, never mind, We’ll see it on the bioscope.” I see, as ages onward roll, An Oval void and empty Lord’s, And theatre without a soul In them save those who tread the hoards. While those who should roll up and pay — It makes the poor performer mope — Just sit at home and gaily say: “We’ll see it on the bioscope.” When only lie who “operates” Will see the Oaks or Derby run. What will become of all the “gates?” Folks don’t keep up these things for fun. And when the oft-predicted foe Attacks these shores (not soon, let’s hope), I hear my* country murmur: “Oh, We’ll see it on the bioscope.” —“M.A.P.” MY LADY WATTLE. There’s a flash of yellow among the trees, And the glitter of golden hair, And a gay. little smile on the dancing leaves, , For my lady wattle is,there. Her gowns are of vevety yellow and gold, And silver and green are her shoes; She carries a scent that will waken the heart To music that no one should lose.

She dances divinely her dance of the spring, • Just for sheer joy and to please; She tosses her arms, sways this way and that, And curtseys and hows to the breeze.

She lures you away from the cities and towns. To come to the bushland and see What a glory of gold she has donned for your gaze, What a healer of hearts she can be. J. L. Ranken. • —“Sydney Mail.”