The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1905-06-15
POEMS OF SPRINGT!ME.
Indications That the Crop Is Not Increasing
in Value.


poets and the would-be poets find them
selves in some peculiar mental state
that leads them to court the muses.
with great zeal and fervor. Editorial
sanctums are flooded with sonnets,
madrigals and lyrics. The ever gaping
NAV Of the waste basket receives many
of them. Indeed, it receives many that
would add to the hilarity OF the world
could they be published. Wonderful
indeed are the poetic flights of fancy
for which the spring beauty and the
spring breezes are responsible. Some
are hilariously joyous; some are NOR
bidly sad; some are full OF wild ''long-
ings''; some are full of calm resigna-
ton; some are love laden, and some
are gently fearful. In some poetic Ii
cense runs riot and spring is made to
rhyme with heaven and love with
friend. Swallows twitter, lambs gam
Dol, robins sing, bees hum, sparrows
mate and flowers bud and bloom in
blank verse, couplets and every other
form of poetic expression. Some of
these singers speak of their produc-
tions as their "brain Children" and
others wish to convey to editors the in
formation that what they have written
has been dashed off i'll an idle mo-
ment." Some refer to their poetic out
bursts as their poor little rhymes"
while others wish one to know that
competent critics" have passed judy
ment on their verses and declared them
to be equal, if not superior, to anything
that he's yet appeared in newspaper or
magazine. The editor with a Joyful
sense of humor is genuinely regretful
because he dares not publish the poem
on Spring beginning with:
It's the Spring. It's the Spring
Little birds begin to sing.
See! the lark is on the wing,
The sun shines out like anything!
And the sweet and tender lamb
Skips beside his great big dam.
He also drops into the waste basket
with grin contribution from Podunk
Corners, in which the poet says:
The flower doth bloom, the bird doth sing,
The infant birdlet is on the wing.
The fruit doth ripen, the grain turn yellow,
In yonder field the calf doth below,
With joyful sound the lamb doth bleat
y the sweet springtime is hard to beat
a poetess of passion tunes her Tyre
to compose the following rapturously
burning lines entitled He Kissed Me-
Oh, kiss me once and twice and thrice,
And twice and thrice and once again.
Oh, kiss me once and twice and thrice,
For that is sorrow, this is pain.
Another poet dedicates his lines to
".She | Love- and breathes his passion
forth in these lines:
know not what her name may be,
know not if she loveth me,
But this know to a celtamtee,
With all my heart lovethvhe.
Next the editor rips open a violet
scented lavender envelope and draws
forth several sheets of paper proving
to be poem entitled Spring Cometh."
HI finds that she is coming in this
fashion:
Spring cOmeth
She is almost here.
Hank, what sound is this hear?
lis the bee with his hum, hum, hum,
lis the woodpecker with his drum, drum,
drum,
To the topmost branch of the oak he clumb,
His nest there to bore,
Hank to his peek, peek, peek,
Saying wife do | seek, seek, seek,
Then he bOres some more.
The bullfrOg is singing his evening lay,
The cricket is chirping just over the way,
The lamb is gambolling out on the green,
AS pretty a sight as ever | seen.
| These sights and sounds and others | hear
Makes me to know that Spring she is near
| A sweet singer in the West tunes his
women having charge of a cemetery:
| Sacred is the cemetery,
Where our loved ones we must bury:
| And other loved ones, us also;
| For we ourselves must also go.
| Welcome the ladies' interest here,
| And may 1t last from year to year.
So, mothers. bring your daughters up
| TO share llfes sweet and bitter cup.
| Home, church and cemetery are
/ DutipS for which they ShOuI1 we'll care
| 1t should be kept real neat and clean,
| And be a home, calm and serene.
| Our friends to us are very dear,
/ Because their souls were very near;
| Those souls took flight, but their friends
here
Should hold the remains very dear
The graves do not our friends contain,
| For only the remains remain.
OF obituary poems there is no end
but one will not often find happier
conceit in the way of obituary poetry
than the following fine lines dedicated
to a railroad engineer:
On schedule time, ascending grade,
And on the hOmeWard section,
He lands his train in Gods roundhouse
On the morn of resurrection.
Love is responsible for more poems
good and bad, than even spring. The
little god of love creates a great many
poetic "breathings" and "sighings" anc
''longings. One disconsolate nader
voices unrequited hopes in long poem
entitled "The Manly Breast" anG
thus she sadly sings:
I'd give each jewel possess,
! And more, if l could rest
My head upon manly breast,
A breast as pure as mountain snow,
And warm for me as Htna's fire,
For me alone. To this do aspire.
| But year by year, instead of coming higher
l do but retrograde-'tis sad,
IT'S passing sad, and makes me feel so very
bad.
There are prolific poets who gener
ously offer to contribute poem each
week to ''your valuable Sheet" and
some of them offer their services at the
low rate, OF so cents poem or three
for ST. Some of them forward instruc-
lions regarding the place the poem is to
occupy in your periodical and the way
in which it is to be brought out. Here
is an instance of this method of assist
ing the editor:
''Please put this on your front page,
with my name in large type at the top
or the bottom of the poem. Can send
photograph of myself if desired. Also
testimonials as to my good character.
Begin each verse Of the poem with a
large black letter, and don't forget