THE MOTH.
Isled in the midnight air, Musked with the dark's faint bloom, out into glooming and secret haunts 
The flame cries, " Come! "
Lovely in dye and fan, A-tremble in shimmering grace, A moth from her winter swoon Uplifts her face;
Stares from her glamorous eyes; Wafts her on plumes like mist; In ecstasy swirls and sways  To her 
strange tryst.
-WALTER DE LA MARE.

THE JUMBLIES
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,  In a Sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends 
could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,  In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve
turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned !" They called aloud, " Our Sieve 
ain't big, But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig !  In a Sieve we'll go to sea! "
Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their 
hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
 In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
 To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And everyone said, who saw them go,
" Oh, won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
 In a Sieve to sail so fast! "
Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their 
hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
The water it soon came in, it did,  The water it  soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped 
their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat,  And they fastened it down with a pin.. And they passed the night 
in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, " How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we 
never can think
we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands  where the Jumblies 
live; Their heads are
green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery 
gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballo! How happy we are, When we live in a Sieve and a 
crockery-jar, And
all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown! Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 
Their heads are
green and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice and 
a Cranberry
Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jackdaws, And a lovely Monkey with 
lollipop
paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
 And no end of Stilton cheese.
 Far  and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went 
to sea in a
Sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back,
in twenty years or more, And everyone said, " How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, 
and the Terrible
Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore !"
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast.
And everyone said, " If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,
 To  the hills of the Chankly Bore!"   Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies 
live; Their heads are
green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
-EDWARD LEAR.

THE STREAM'S SONG.
Make way, make way,
You thwarting stones; 
Room for my play, Serious ones.
Do you not fear, O rocks and boulders,
To feel my laughter 
On your grave shoulders ? 
Do you not know
My joy at length
Will all wear out
Your solemn strength?
You will not for or ever Cumber my play; With joy and a song I clear my way.
Your faith of rock
Shall yield to me,
And be carried away,
By the song of my glee.
Crumble, crumble,
Voiceless things; No faith can last That never sings.
For the last hour
To joy belongs;
 The steadfast perish,
But not the songs.
Yet for a while Thwart me, O boulders; I need for laughter Your serious shoulders.
And when my singing Has razed you quite, I shall have lost Half my delight.
-LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE in "Poems." (Martin Secker and Warburg.)

A PIPER.
A piper in the streets to-day
Set up and tuned, and started to play;
And away, away, away on the tide
Of his music we started; on every side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
And men left their work and came,
And women with petticoats coloured like flame;
And bare little feet that were blue with cold, 
Went dancing back to the age of gold; 
And all the world went gay, went gay,
For half an hour in the street to-day.
 ---SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN.


TRADE WINDS.
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white 
houses and the orange-trees, And day-long,
night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze Of the steady Trade Winds 
blowing.
There  is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale, The shuffle of the 
dancers, the old salt's tale, The squeaking fiddle,
and the soughing in the sail  Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
And o' nights there's fire-flies and the yellow moon, And in the ghostly 
palm-trees the sleepy tune Of the quiet voice
calling me, the long low croon Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
-	JOHN MASEFIELD

JOY AND PLEASURE.
Now, Joy is born of parents poor,
And Pleasure of our richer kind.
Though Pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as Joy confined.
Pleasure's a moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.
Joy's like a bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But Pleasure's like a greedy wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.
Joy's like a lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.
Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But Pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.
- W. H. DAVIES.

PHAETHON.
Helios, Lord of the Sun, (It's so the story's told) Second to none, The Flaming One, Sat in his coach 
of gold. Phaethon, son of the Sun-god, Came to his dread Papa. "Now let me have just once,"
said he,
"Your reins and hames and horses three, With a whip to crack - and let me see If I can drive your 
car." "Well keep your head," The Sun-god said, "And promise you won't go far."
Phaethon, son of the Sun-god, Harnessed his steeds at dawn; Out of the east his chariot swung Under 
the Arch of Morn. Phaethon, son of the Sun-god, Followed his heart's desire;
But ere he'd journeyed half the day, He careless grew and lost his way, And the Earth called out in 
wild dismay: "Your foolish son, O Sire, Has left the track, And he can't turn back; He'll set my
fields on fire!"
Jupiter saw from Heaven Phaethon's fierce approach, Killed the dolt with a thunderbolt, And stopped 
the runaway coach. Jupiter said to Helios, " Sorry about your son But he lost his head and
drove like mad, And scared the Earth-and I ought to add That only a very indulgent Dad Would do what 
you have done; You shouldn't employ A foolish boy To drive your coach for fun."
-HUGH CHESTERMAN in " The Muse Amuses." (Nelson.)

THE DEATH OF PUCK.
I fear  that Puck is dead - it is so long
Since man last saw him; dead with all the rest
Of that sweet elfin crew that made their nest In hollow nuts, where 
hazels sing their song; Dead and for ever, like the
antique throng
The elves replaced; the Dryad that you guess'd
Behind the leaves; the Naiad weed bedress'd;
The leaf-ear'd Faun that loved to lead you wrong.
Tell me, thou hopping Robin, hast thou met  A little man, no bigger than 
thyself,
Whom they call Puck, where woodland bells are wet! Tell me, thou 
Wood-mouse, hast thou seen an elf Whom they
call Puck, and is he seated yet,
Capp'd with a snail-shell, on his mushroom shelf ?
The Robin gave three hops, and chirp'd, and said: "Yes, I knew Puck, and 
loved him; though I trow
He mimick'd oft my whistle, chuckling low; Yes, I knew cousin Puck; but 
he is dead. We found him lying on his
mushroom bed - 
The Wren and I - half-covered up with snow,
As we were hopping where the berries grow. We think he died of cold.  Ay, 
Puck is fled."
And then the Wood-mouse said: " We made the Mole Dig him a little
grave beneath the moss,
And four big Dormice placed him in the hole.
 The Squirrel made with sticks a little cross: Puck was a Christian 
elf, and had a soul;
And all we velvet-jackets mourn his loss."
-EUGENE LEE-HAMILTON.

THE CHILDREN'S SONG.
Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee Our love and toil in the years to be; When we are grown and take 
our place, As
men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all, Oh help Thy children, when they call; That they may build from  age 
to age, An
undefiled heritage.
Teach us to bear the yoke in youth, With steadfastness and careful truth, That, in our time, Thy 
Grace may give, The
Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teach us to rule ourselves alway, Controlled and cleanly, night and day. That we may bring, if need 
arise, No maimed
or worthless sacrifice.
Teach us to look in all our ends, On Thee for judge and not our friends; That we with Thee may walk uncowed, By fear or favour 
of the crowd.
Teach us the Strength that cannot seek, By deed or thought, to hurt the weak; That under Thee, we may 
possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.
Teach us Delight in simple things And Mirth that has no bitter springs; Forgiveness free of evil 
done, And love to all
men 'neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride, For whose dear sake our fathers died, Oh Motherland, we 
pledge to thee, Head,
heart, and hand through the years to be!
-RUDYARD KIPLING, in " Sixty Poems." (Hodder and Stoughton.)

BURNING LEAVES.
We have swept up Summer with barrow and broom, We  have heaped her heart on a golden pyre;
All her beauty and all her bloom
Are a trail of smoke in a thin blue spire,
And ashes scattered among the mire. All the pride of her rich array Is flung to the gathering winds 
to-day, And some will
remember, and some will say: There is nothing so sad as an Autumn fire!
-WILL H. OGILVIE, in " A Clean Wind Blowing - Songs of the Out-of-Doors." (Constable.)

THE SONG OF THE 'PLANE.
This is the song of the 'Plane, The creaking, shrieking 'plane, The throbbing, sobbing plane, And the 
moaning, groaning wires: The engine-missing again: One cylinder never fires.
Hey ho for the 'Plane!
This is the song of the Man, The driving, striving man, The chosen, frozen man: The pilot, the 
man-at-the-wheel, Whose limit is all that he can, And beyond, if the need is real.
Hey ho for the Man!
This is the song of the Air, The lifting, drifting air, The eddying, steadying air, The wine of its 
limitless space. May it nerve us at last to dare Even death, with undaunted face.
Hey ho for the Air!  
- "Observer R.F.C." (Captain GORDON  ALCHIN,  A.F.C.)

THISTLEDOWN.
Silver against blue sky These ghosts of day float by, Fitful, irregular, Each one a silk-haired star, 
Till from the wind's aid freed They settle on their seed.
Not by the famished light Of a moon-ridden night But by clear sunny hours Gaily these ghosts of 
flowers With rise and swirl and fall Dance to their burial.
-ANDREW YOUNG, in "Poems." (Jonathan Cape.)

A FANCY.
The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood
As she thought of the Gardener standing by
" He is old, - so old! And he soon must die! "
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air, And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare;
And she laughed once more as she heard his tread – "He is older now! He will soon be dead!"
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;
And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them gently under the mould.
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
-AUSTIN DOBSON. (Humphrey Milford's copyright.)

IS LIFE WORTH LIVING? 
Is life worth living? Yes so long  As there is wrong to right,
Wail of the weak against the strong,
Or tyranny to fight;
Long as there lingers gloom to chase,
Or streaming tear to dry,
One kindred woe, one sorrowing face
That smiles as we draw nigh;
Long as at tale of anguish swells
The heart, and lids grow wet,
And  at the sound of Christmas bells 
We pardon and forget;
So long as faith with freedom reigns And loyal hope survives,
And gracious charity remains To leaven lowly lives;
While there is one untrodden tract  For intellect or will,  
And men are free to think and act, Life is worth living still.
-ALFRED AUSTIN. (Extract.)

DOG.
You little friend, Your nose is ready; you sniff Asking for that expected 
walk, (Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.
And so the moment becomes a moving force:
Coats glide from their pegs in the humble dark;
The sticks grow live to the  stride of their vagrant course.
You scamper the stairs  
Your body informed with the scent and the track
 and the mark Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.
We are going  out. You know the pitch of the word.
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog

And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard) 
The four-legged brain of a walk-intensive dog.
Out in the garden your head is already low. (Can you smell the rose?
Ah, no.)
But your limbs can draw
Life from the earth through the touch of your
padded paw. 
Thus, for your walk we took ourselves, and went
Out by the hedge and the tree and on to the green.
You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent.
Over the hill without seeing the view;
Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you:
To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely seen.
Home … and further joy will be surely there:
Supper waiting full of the taste of bone,
You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare
For the habit known
Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down,
While your people talk above you in the light
Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown Into the bed-delicious 
hours of night.
-HAROLD MONRO.

A HAPPY LIFE.
No silks have I! no furs nor feathers,
But one old gown that knows all weathers; No veils, nor parasols, nor lace,  But rough hands and a 
tanned face.
Yet the soft crinkled leaves are mine, Where pale, mysterious, veins shine, 
 And laced larches upon the blue,
And grey veils where the moon shines through:
The cries of birds across the lawns,
In dark and teeming April dawns;
The sound of wings at the door-sill,
Where grows the wet-eyed tormentil;  
The ripe berry's witcheries - 
Its perfect round that satisfies;
And the gay scent of  the wood I burn,
And the slap of butter in  a busy churn.
-MARY WEBB.

ROOFS.
The road is wide and the stars are out and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling-place.
I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home;
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
A gipsy man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease as long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
If you call a gipsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway, and its milestones are the years,
And now, and then
there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road, and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.
- JOYCE KILMER, in "Poems Chosen by Boys and Girls." (BASIL BLACKWELL.)

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY.
When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea:
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With " Here is the fiddler of Dooney!"
And dance like a wave of the sea.
-W. B. YEATS, in" Later Poems." (Macmillan.)

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.
[This poem relates an incident in American history. On
April 18-19, 1775, British troops were landed at Boston.
 Paul Revere made the ride described in order to warn the
people of Concord. The next day fighting took place at Lexington, the first battle in the  War of American Independence. Mystic 
is a river near Boston.]
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul 
Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town 
to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light One, if by land, and two, if 
by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and 
farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."
And so, impatient to mount and ride,
 Booted and spurred with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his 
horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened 
his saddle
girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose 
above the graves
on the hill,
Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and 
then a gleam of
light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes till full on his sight A second lamp in the
belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, 
from the pebbles, in
passing, a spark Struck out by a steed, flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; 
And the spark struck
out by that steed in his flight Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the 
Mystic, meeting
the ocean tides; And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is 
heard the tramp of
his steed as he rides.
So through the night rode Paul Revere. And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every 
Middlesex village and
farm -
A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for ever more! For, borne on 
the night-wind of
the past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The 
people will waken and
listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
-	HENRY LONGFELLOW. (Abridged.)

HARD FROST.
Frost called to water " Halt!" And crusted the moist snow with sparkling salt; Now runnels scarcely 
crawl And icicles
in long stalactites fall And tench in water-holes Lurk under gluey glass like fish in bowls.
In the hard-rutted lane At every footstep breaks a brittle pane; And tinkling tree 
ice-bound, Changed into
weeping willows, sweep the ground; Dead boughs take root in ponds, And ferns in windows shoot their 
ghostly fronds.
But vainly the fierce  frost Interns poor fish, ranks trees in an armed host, Hangs daggers from 
house-eaves And in their windows ferny ambush weaves; In the long war grown warmer The sun, striking him dead, will 
strip his armour.
-ANDREW YOUNG.

NEW ZEALAND.
OUR FLOWERS ARE PALE.
The great Pacific salt so steeps our air That noon-tide burns it to a 
driftwood blue. Such skies are passion to a lark
upflown, As if a hemisphere of harebells caught, Clapper to clapper, 
running silver fire. The lovely conflagration dies in
dew, Such dew as only rivered lands beget Where air lies long with heavy, 
crystal streams As clear as are the firths
of Paradise. Our midnight stretches, a tremendous targe, Transfixed with 
planets, each a golden boss, Among the
lesser nail-heads of the stars. Within the northern island here and 
there Are burning hills, that smoulder, sulk and
brood, 
Great fireseeds furious for shoots of flame;
 But farther down an alp-line, calm and cold,
 Looks southward to the mountains of the pole
 That lean like gods with comets in their slings
Lancing auroras in the whistling air.
 And we have birds, Atlantic birds and ours,
 So that at once, from out the self-same tree  Can come an anthem and a karakia;
 And birds that think in oceans come and go,
 Their chart  behind their eyes that scarcely sleep
 To find the Southern Cross beyond the Bear.
 Our flowers are pale, the mock of pander bees,
 Save those red trees that put forth such a blaze
 The very Tasman could not put it out
 When summer strikes the tinder of their boughs.
 We call this country ours, but who can hold
 Such youth transcendent, unassailable,
 Like a great moment or a flashing glance?
 Go free, my land, we are content to be
The commoners of such a valiancy.
-	EILEEN  DUGGAN, in "New Zealand Poems." (Allen and Unwin.)

History."

HENRY THE THIRD.
Henry the Third was that poor freak, A King who's spoken of as Weak, And, 
bred in John his father's school,
Seemed totally unfit to rule. So, Simon Montfort sternly went And 
instituted Parliament.
Had Henry happened to belong To Kings we speak about as Strong, The 
House of Commons might have been A
house that nobody has seen, And we might still be swayed by swords Instead of by 
the House of Lords.
-	HERBERT FARJEON.

ANIMALS HAVE NO PRETENCE.
Animals have no pretence Veiling their indifference. They don't over-eat 
nor whine, Label all things " yours " and "mine." Never vulgar, avaricious. Sentimental, superstitious; Never 
snobbish, vengeful, vain. Pleasure they accept and
pain. Vice is unknown, filth abhorred. They do good without reward. When 
their lives on earth are done, Happily, I
think they run Over death's dividing dark; Where those saints who ran the 
Ark - Noah and Japhet, Ham and Shem -
Probably look after them.
-GEOFFREY DEARMER. (Extract from "The Human Attitude," in "Poems for Modern Youth.") (Longmans.)

JUST MY WHIM.
I like the wind; I revel in its raging; I love to hear it roaring and rampaging; To feel its buffets, 
rough and growing rougher, That make my tanned
integument the tougher. I scorn scared skulkers huddled in hot houses In whom no flame the storm's 
high challenge rouses: Why, as for me, a
breeze need but start blowing To set my vital spark for battle glowing And scatter every humour 
melancholic With ardour for a fierce al fresco frolic!
I love the wind; but, sweet, let me remind you I hate a draught------SO SHUT THE DOOR BEHIND YOU!
-W. K. H.

PSYCHE'S TASK.
She* took her then aside and bade her heed A heap of grains piled high upon the floor, Millet and 
mustard, hemp and poppy seed, And fern-bloom's
undistinguishable spore, All kinds of pulse, of grasses, and of spice, Clover and linseed, rape and 
corn, and rice, Dodder, and sesame, and many more.
"Sort me these seeds," she said; "it now is night, I will return at morning; if I find That thou hast 
separated all aright, Each grain from other grain after its kind, And
set them in unmingl'd heaps apart, Then shall thy wish be granted to thine heart." Whereat she turned 
and closed the door behind.
A single lamp there stood beside the heap, And shed thereon its mocking golden light; Such as might tempt the weary eye to 
sleep Rather than prick the nerve of tasked sight.

*Aphrodite.   Psyche.

Yet Psyche, not to fail for lack of zeal, With good will sat her down to her ordeal, Sorting the 
larger seeds as best she might.
When lo! upon the wall, a shadow passed Of doubtful shape, across the chamber dim Moving with speed: 
and seeing nought that cast The shade, she bent her
down the flame to trim; And there the beast itself, a little ant, Climbed   up in compass of the 
lustre scant, Upon the bowl of oil ran round the rim.
Smiling to see the creature of her fear So dwarf'd by truth, she watcht him where he crept, For mere 
distraction telling in his ear What straits she then was in,
and telling wept. Whereat he stood and trimmed his horns; but ere Her tale was done resumed his 
manner scare, Ran down, and on his way in darkness kept.
But she intent drew forth with dextrous hand The larger seeds, or pushed the smaller back. Or light 
from heavy with her breathing fanned. When suddenly she saw
the floor grow black. And troops of ants flowing in noiseless train, Moved to the hill of seeds, as 
o'er a plain Armies approach a city for attack;
And gathering on the grain, began to strive With grappling horns: and each from out the heap His 
burden drew, and all their motion live Struggled and slid upon the
surface steep. And Psyche wonder'd, watching them, to find The creatures separated kind from kind: 
Till dizzied with the sight she fell asleep.
And when she woke 'twas with the morning sound Of Aphrodite's anger at the door, Whom high amaze 
stayed backward, as she found Her foe asleep with all her
trouble o'er; And round the room beheld in order due, The piles arranged distinct and sorted true, 
Grain with grain, seed with seed, and spore with  spore.
- ROBERT BRIDGES, in "Poems for Modern Youth.'' (Longmans.)

A WINTER FLIGHT.
A winter flight Of yellowhammers flashing in the light Settles upon a little leafless tree, Feathering with golden plumes Its 
nakedness until it blooms With fluttering
flames of fire Above the frosted brierA very burning bush of ecstasy!
-- WILFRID GIBSON, in " The Observer."

THE CLOUD.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail.
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
in the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,  Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back Of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aery nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof
The stars peep behind her and peer.
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees ,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers , lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the Moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim and the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow ,
When the powers of the air are chained to my  chair;
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,  
Like a Child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb
I arise and unbuild it again.
-P. B. SHELLEY.

THE CRANE.
It stuns The rapt attention, and it lifts More than its load of many tons 
More than the turbine swung on high So easily
A toy In its great grasp of steel. It lifts my soul to feel Joy in all human 
effort - joy In its clear lines of loveliness; For
beauty is the gesture of victorious Might, And Strength exultant in 
success Fashions the world's delight. It shifts
More than the quarried cube of stone
From the fixed earth to the unfixed sea It moves my very spirit, which 
had grown One with the unmoving earth, and
sets it free On the free oceans where Adventure goes Who knows To what 
fair glory ? So, the old spell breaking,
Thought, from his deep enchantment waking, Casts off the chains of what 
has been - regrets, Fears, hesitations,
doubts - and sets Out on fresh voyage. And the crane With its fast 
grapnels lays Hold of my heart and lifts it up in
praise--Praise of the human hand That made it, and the human brain That 
planned.
A hundred feet, the tower Rears its light frame of girder and tie And 
through its interlaced Black lines The blue June
sky In lozenge and triangle shines. It stands foursquare, Tenoned in 
concrete, rooted in rock Rigid, efficient, spare :
The minimum of work and waste, The maximum of power. Iron ladders run  
Steeply aloft - a stair Climbing above the
river and the town A sharp ascent into a purer air, Into a clearer sun. 
Far down Between the girders, street and roof
Appear tilted ; far off a weather-cock, As to some comrade like itself 
aloof From the flat round of things, Signals "Ahoy ! " and flings The flags of sunlight in a flash of signs. It sees 
the first long-drawn Streamer of smoke, ere round
the distant river bend The steamer comes in sight ; It is the 
first to cry the dawn
"Good morrow!" and at the day's end, The first to see the first star's 
light.
Then, on the Atlas-shoulders, of its strength It bears the far-reached 
jib out-swung An arm of abrupt metal flung Full in
the empty face of space An abrupt length Of bridge stretched over an 
abyss And leading nowhere ; an immense
Menace of steel, that like some half-heard fate, Sweeps round to dominate 
Its wide circumference. And on this
highway, to and fro, With steady movement slow The cab Crawls on its 
claw-like sprawl of wheel While, like a
hooded serpent with curved fangs, The cable with its tackle hangs And its 
twin-hooks below. And it will grip and it will
move Now this, now that enormous weight, With infinite precision - as if 
love Had made its touch so delicate ; And it
will lower, with the grace Of absolute ease, huge stacks, and great  
Engines, and fit them into place Not one
sixteenth of a small inch amiss.
Under the jib the cab Clings, as the nests of swallows cling To the high 
eaves of houses. There, alone, He sits, who
is the soul Of this vast body of steel And everything In this vast body - 
chain, Cable, and hook, and wheel, Ratchet,
and brake, and the geared motors - feel His calm, deliberate control. 
His hand Moves, and the giant structure thrills
Instant obedience to his will's Command ;   While from the cab, as from a 
brain Nerves run to the least cell, Wires,
Threading the attentive whole,
Flash to all parts, from that small citadel,
Inaudible mandates to make known Mankind's desires. For man, who is so 
weak a thing, Assumes thereby Mighty
extension and titanic force And in triumphant stature towers Matched with 
the primal powers Of Nature in sublime
equality Thereby, Godlike, he ordains the course Of subject Destiny.
--JOHN REDWOOD ANDERSON, in "Poems for Modern Youth." (Longmans.)

HANDS.
Tempest without ; within, the mellow glow Of mingling lamp and firelight over all - Etchings and 
water-colours on the
wall, Cushions and curtains of clear indigo, Rugs damask-red and blue as Tyrian seas, Deep chairs, 
black oaken
settles, hammered brass, Translucent porcelain and sea-green glass - Colour and warmth and light and 
dreamy ease
And I sit wondering where are now the hands That wrought at anvil, easel, wheel and loom - Hands 
slender, swart, red,
gnarled - in foreign lands Or English shops to furnish this seemly room And all the while, without, 
the windy rain
Drums like dead fingers tapping at the pane.
-- WILFRED WILSON GIBSON, in. " Poems for Modern Youth." (Longmans.)

SONG IN WINTER.
Beneath these trees a richer treasure lies Than all the gold of Spain, than painted dyes In 
peacocks' strutting tails,
than firelight glowing, For when the warm Spring winds are blowing Will daffodils rise from the grass 
To sway and
curtsy as we pass
Beneath this earth lie daffodils, Dreaming, while Winter coldly spills Storms and rain across the 
earth, Till the
triumphant Springtime mirth Of blackbirds fluting from the trees Wakes them to golden ecstasies . . .
-SHEILA D. STAVELEY.

LUCK.
What bring you, sailor, home from the sea - Coffers of gold and of ivory ?
When first I went to sea as a lad A new jack-knife was all I had
And I've sailed for fifty years and three To the coasts of gold and of ivory
And now at the end of a lucky life, Well, still I've got my old 
jack-knife.
-WILFRID GIBSON, in "Collected Poems, 1905-1925." (Macmillan.)

SURVIVORS.
To all the woods of winter
Came frost with rack and vice,
And, torturing, turned the spinneys
to sepulchres of ice.
In all the woods of winter
No life, no bird, no sound;
Fell many a child of famine
In rigour to the ground.
Now, by  a lovely wonder,
Some brave, some few remain,
And earth, to music melting,
Will echo them again.
As peace comes out of warfare
A frail and orphan thing,
Come sweet the scanty voices
In all the woods of spring.
- IVOR BROWN.

TITWILLOW.
On a tree, by a river a little tom-tit
Sang " Willow, titwillow, titwillow!
 And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing ' Willow,  titwillow, titwillow ' ? Is it weakness of 
intellect, birdie? " I cried, " Or a rather tough worm in your little
inside?" With a shake of his poor little head he replied, " Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! ',
He slapped at his chest as he sat on that bough, Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!", And a cold perspiration 
bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, titwillow! titwillow! He sobbed,
and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide's 
grave – "Oh! willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name
Isn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,
" Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
- W. S. GILBERT.

THE BUTTERFLY.
The beetle is a clod.
The brown bee but a thief, But the butterfly's a god
As he poises on the leaf; Free of open sky,
Free of fern and clover, Free is he to fly,
The wide world over.
Jewel he, and gem,
Bronze or red or blue, Clinging to a stem
Ere he launch anew; Flashing like a fire
Through a lush green land,
Mocking the desire
Of the outstretched hand.
Slighter than a thought,
Subtler than a dream, Chased and still uncaught, 
Gamboller and gleam;
Pinions ever beating  Swift without a sound; Fancy ever fleeting,
Beauty never hound.
- WILL H. OGILVIE, in "A Clean Wind Blowing - Songs Of the Out-of-Doors." (Constable.)

DISCORD AND HARMONY.
War is raging, men are slain
But birds are building nests again.
Man destroys himself, nor reasons;
God persists in Time and Seasons

Bombs drop death - tears, blood and pain;
Sweet Spring blossoms - sun and rain.
Empires come, and Empires go;
Earth rolls on, so sure and slow.
War is raging, men are slain,
But birds are building nests again.
-	NATALIE LYNN. (Altered.)

THE WEST WIND.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my 
eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills, And April's in
the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, 
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
"Will ye not come home, brother? Ye have been long away,
It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may;
And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, - 
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run;
It's blue sky, and white clouds and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain,
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat,
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your  tired feet?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind full of birds cries.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass and rest for heart and head,
To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
-JOHN MASEFIELD, in " Collected Poems." (Heinemann.)

OUT OF THE AIR.
No song-bird will ever Come to my call; But when I am thinking Of nothing at all, Thinking of nothing 
And going
nowhere, Out of the air The crystal notes fall.
-	WILFRID GIBSON.(Macmillan's copyright.)


HOMECOMING.
The cuckoo is making for old Maunganui Slowly he flies Heavy the wind that blows to the headland Over 
his eyes. He
falls in the grasses and lies there and lies there, Sobbing his plight, Weary the noon on the wastes 
of the water,
Weary the night, Come cuckoo, come cuckoo, come cuckoo! Thirsty wings, Thirsty beak, Thirsty throat, 
Fall you
there; fall you there! Rest!
And still with his spur he clings to the pebble That with its cold Saved his hot beak over millions 
of billows, Thirsting
untold. So toiled he on over winds, over waters, High in cold air, Quenching his heart on the thought 
of our headland,
Lonely and clear. Come cuckoo! Come cuckoo! Come cuckoo! Weary wings, Weary beak, Weary throat, 
Haeremai,
haeremai, rest!
-EILEEN DUGGAN, " "New Zealand Poems." (Allen and Unwin.)

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

SIR JOHN MOORE.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er  his head
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done  When the clock struck the hour for retiring, And we heard the 
distant and
random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,  But we left him alone with his glory.
-CHARLES WOLFE.

KWASIND THE STRONG.
Dear, too, unto Hiawatha Was the very strong man, Kwasind, He the strongest of all mortals, He the 
mightiest among
many; For his very strength he loved him, For his strength allied to goodness.
Idle in his youth was Kwasind, Very listless, dull, and dreamy, Never played with other children, 
Never fished and
never hunted, Not like other children was he; But they saw that much he fasted, Much his Manito 
entreated, Much
besought his Guardian Spirit.
" Lazy Kwasind! " said his mother, "In my work you never help me! In the Summer you are roaming Idly 
in the fields
and forests; In the Winter you are cowering O'er the firebrands in the wigwam! In the coldest days of 
Winter I must
break the ice for fishing; With my nets you never help me! At the door my nets are hanging, Dripping, 
freezing with
the water; Go and wring them, Yenadizze! "
 Slowly from the ashes, Kwasind Rose, but made no angry answer; From the lodge went forth in silence, 
Took the
nets that hung together, Dripping, freezing at the doorway, Like a wisp of straw he wrung them, Like 
a wisp of straw
he broke them, Could not wring them without breaking,
Such the strength was in his fingers.
" Lazy Kwasind!" said his father,
"In the hunt you never help me; Every bow You touch is broken Snapped  asunder every arrow; Yet come with me to the forest 
You shall bring the hunting homeward."
Down a narrow Pass they wandered, Where a brooklet led them onward Where the trail of deer and bison Marked the
soft mud on the margin, Till they found all further passage Shut against them, barred securely By the trunks of trees
uprooted.
Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, And forbidding further passage.
" We must go back," said the old man,
O'er these logs we cannot clamber; Not a woodchuck could get through them, Not a squirrel clamber o'er them! " And
straightway his pipe he lighted And sat down to smoke and ponder. But before his pipe was finished Lo! the path was
cleared before him; All the trunks had Kwasind lifted To the right hand, to the left. hand, Shot the pine-trees swift as
arrows Hurled the cedars light as lances.
" Lazy Kwasind! " said the young men, As they sported in the meadows, " Why stand idly looking at us, Leaning on
that rock behind you? Come and wrestle with the others Let us pitch the quoit together! "'
Lazy Kwasind made no answer, To their challenge made no answer,
Only rose, and, slowly turning, Seized the huge rock in his fingers Tore it from its deep foundations, Poised it in the
air a moment, Pitched it sheer into the river, Sheer into the swift Pauwating, Where it still is seen in Summer.
-H. H. LONGFELLOW. "The Song of Hiawatha."

THE DONKEY.
When fishes flew and forests walked,
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moments when the moon was blood,
Then surely, I was born ;
With monstrous head and sickening cry,
And cars like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will ;
Starve, scourge, deride me : I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour .
One far fierce hour and sweet
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
-G. K. CHESTERTON.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS.
Ring, out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,  For those that here we see no more;  Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,  And ancient forms of party strife;  Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,  The faithless coldness of the times:  Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But, ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the 
common
love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the
thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is 
to be.
-ALFRED TENNYSON.

EARLY MORNING FROM A TRAIN.
Staring cow and wooden horse, Poplar plumes no wind has stirred, Cardboard village, sky of gauze Pierced by dark uprushing 
bird, Like an arrow, like a star,
Caught forever in the brain; In the mind and in the heart, In the prison of the train; Where the wind's bright streaming 
scarf Flutters past the silver rails, Where
the engine's ragged breath Cuts the morning's misty veils; Strange as in a broken dream, Caught like an unspoken word, Is the 
vision, is the flame Of a dark
uprushing bird.
-DOUGLAS GIBSON.

WEEK-END.
The train! The twelve o'clock for Paradise.
Hurry, or it will try to creep away.  
Out in the country every one is wise.
We can be only wise on Saturday.
There you are waiting, little friendly house:
Those are your chimney-stacks with you between,
Surrounded by old trees and strolling cows,
Staring through all your windows at the green.
Your homely floor is creaking for our tread;
The smiling tea-pot with contented spout
Thinks of the boiling water, and the bread
Longs for the butter. All their hands are out To greet us, and the gentle blankets seem Purring and 
crooning: " Lie in
us, and dream."
The key will stammer, and the door reply,
The hall wake, yawn, and smile; the torpid stair
Will grumble at our feet, the table cry:
" Fetch my belongings for me; I am bare." 
A clatter! Something in the attic falls.
A ghost has lifted up his robes and fled.
The loitering shadows move along the walls; Then silence very slowly 
lifts his head.
The starling with impatient screech has flown The chimney, and is 
watching from the tree.
They thought us gone for ever: mouse alone  Stops in the middle of the 
floor to see.
Now all you idle things, resume your toil.
Hearth, put your flames on. Sulky kettle, boil.
-HAROLD MONRO (The Poetry Bookshop).




