Decembre 1914

The carver in stone

par John Drinkzoater

Because an owl blinked on the beam of his barn. One, hoarse with crying gospels in the street, Praised most the ram, because the common folk Wore breeches made of ram's wool. One declared The tiger pleased him best, —the man who carved The tiger-god was halt out of the womb— A man to praise, being so pitiful.

The treasure

par Rupert Brooke

When colour goes home into the eyes, And lights that shine are shut again With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries Behind the gateways of the brain; And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close The rainbow and the rose:—

The staircase

par Lascelles Abercrombie

A small room in an empty cottage, without furniture. Stone floor; dirty ragged paper on walls. The room is littered with bits of sawn wood, shavings, tools ; a joiner's frail lies on the floor. Door to the open air on right; in the back wall an old kitchen range, with a good fire burning. A young joiner is alone in the room; he has been putting in a new staircase, which is all but finished; the new wood, clean and white, shows up amid the dingy room.

The orphans

par Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

At five o'clock one April morn I met them making tracks, Young Benjamin and Abel Horn, With bundles on their backs.

The pessimist

par Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

His body bulged with puppies—little eyes Peeped out of every pocket, black and bright; And with as innocent, round-eyed surprise He watched the glittering traffic of the night.

Girl’s song

par Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

I saw three black pigs riding In a blue and yellow cart— Three black pigs riding to the fair Behind the old grey dappled mare— But it wasn't black pigs riding In a gay and gaudy cart That sent me into hiding With a flutter in my heart.

The old nail-shop

par Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

I dreamt of wings,—and waked to hear Through the low sloping ceiling clear The nesting starlings flutter and scratch Among the rafters of the thatch, Not twenty inches from my head; And lay, half-dreaming, in my bed, Watching the far elms, bolt-upright Black towers of silence in a night

The shaft

par Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

He must have lost his way, somehow. 'Twould seem He'd taken the wrong turning, back a bit, After his lamp ... Or was it all a dream That he'd nigh reached the cage—his new lamp lit And swinging in his hand, and whistling, glad To think the shift was over—when he'd tripped And stumbled, like the daft, club-footed lad