Stockdale extra - Sligo Poets

   Sligo Times 12 February 1910
           When We Two Meet.

When we two meet it may be in the dawning
When dewdecked hills in splendour lie beneath the mystic light,
When rosy morn from out the East shall make for thee all awning
Above thy path that leads to-day across the silent night.

When we two meet  perchance twill’ be in the noonday,
When all the earth shall lie adream beneath a cloudless sky,
When flowerets awake in wonder to hail the golden sun ray
Adown our old world garden, where the breeze comes whispering by.

When we two meet—it may be in the even’,
When quiet reigns supreme again, and all the world is still;
When e’en the breeze is hushed to sleep, and starry night is weaving
A spell of wondrous beauty o’er valley and o’er hill.

When we two meet—shall it matter when or where?
So that you might come, sweetheart, on the wind’s swift feet,
To span the silent years, to climb the golden stair
Hand by hand to our fairy land, when we two meet.

                                              LOUIE STOCKDALE.
Manorhamilton.

Sligo Times 27 August 1910
             A ROSE.

        'Tis but a faded flower,
        Its beauty long since fled,
        Yet, bright its glow
        In the long ago
E’er the hope in my heart lay dead.
   A rose of fragrant beauty,
’Twas culled, sweetheart, for you
        In the old days,
        The dear days,
   In the days I thought thee true.

        I touch its faded petals
        That whisper still of thee,
        Each faded leaf recalling
        Some memory dear to me.
[Missing line?]
   I see an old world garden,
A maid with eyes of blue
        Bright as the skies,
        With a glad surprise,
A dazzling love light too.
   
        Ah, many vows were uttered
        In those old happy days
        When love unfurled
        A new, glad world,
Before my eager gaze.
   Vows that you lightly broke, sweet,
Ere many suns had set,
        It was long ago
        In the summer’s glow
Yet I can ne’er forget.

        ’Tis but a faded flower
        Yet still it speaks of thee,
        And with saddening thrill
        The old love still
Comes throbbing back to me.
   And. so for old sake’s sake, dear,
Till I am old and grey,
        The radiant glow
        Of the long ago
Shall live in my heart always.
                       Louie Stockdale

Sligo Times 10 June 1911
The Knight and the Roses.

’Twas on a Sunday afternoon—
   The sun was warm and bright—
When through our quiet neighbourhood
   Came motoring the Knight.

A welcome diversion,
   When visitors are few,
He left a cloud of dust behind
   And a box of roses too.

"Who are they for," asked Patricia.
   "Ah, who?" I echoed low,
My tone was fraught with meaning,
   And her cheeks took on a glow.

Then up spoke Jean in wisdom;
   "Why, there are only two,
So one is for Patricia,
   And the other is for you."

But I laughed in high derision,
   The Knight I knew right well;
I also knew he didn’t approve
   Of thoughtless Clarabel.

Yes, I felt an odd elation
   As I gazed at the proffered prize—
A little thing gains value
   When it takes one by surprise.

So I took the dainty blossom—
   It seemed the thing to do—
"Are you sure," I asked Patricia,
   "They are not both for you?"

For I suddenly remembered,
   Tho’ she distained to speak,
The Knight had brought her a bouquet
   Only the previous week.

We stood in meditation
   And each of us breathed a name,
I looked at my rose for sytmpathy,
   But it seemed to droop in shame.

Then the thought came to torment me
   And with each moment grew;
"I will wither in your keeping,
   For it was not meant for you."

The Knight admires Patricia,
   Disapproves of me and my fun.
Well, she has a thousand virtues,
   I haven’t a single one.

I looked at my dainty blossom,
   I looked at it long and deep.
The rose is my favourite flower,
   I’d have liked this rose to keep.

From the rose I looked at Patricia,
   At her hair with its golden sheen;
In the place where sometime I boasted a heart
   I felt exceedingly mean.

After all, did it matter?
   Patricia is good and true.
If she were his queen of the roses,
   The roses were her due.

Yes, she has a thousand virtues,
   And he is a lucky chap,
So "sweets to the sweet" I said gaily
   And I dropped it into her lap.

Her eyes grew round with wonder;
   She looked me up and down.
"Pray take it," I cried flippantly,
   "It doesn’t suit my gown."

She took it with a pleasure
   She vainly strove to hide,
She fastened it with the other
   And they brightened side by side.

And tho’ her breath were the magic
   Breath of the summer’s sea;
Alas! ’twas painfully evident
   They were neither meant for me.

May, 1911.    Louie Stockdale.

Sligo Times 12 August 1911.
   THOUGHTS OF YOU.

I think of you every morning
     As the breeze comes whispering by,
And the sun is slowly waking
     Far away in the eastern sky.
And I wonder, dear, I wonder,
     As the day creeps over the hill,
If a tender thought it will bring to me
     To say that you love me still.

I think of you every evening
     As the birds come home to rest,
And earth’s own fairest treasures
     Are hushed to her tender breast;
And I wonder, dear, I wonder
     As the mists creep up the sea,
If by morning bright or starry night,
     Do you ever think of me?

Manorhamilton. LOUIE STOCKDALE.

Sligo Times 12 August 1911.
        CARNATIONS.

Carnation, sweet, I love thee,
     Wet with the morning dew;
The sun that shines above thee
     It seems to love thee too;
It paints three [thee] red for passion
     And white for purity;
It paints thee pink for beauty,
     The fairest shade to me.
Oh if I had a garden,
     ’Twould be my happy lot,
To grow thee with the roses
     [Line omitted here  - plot?]

Carnation, sweet, I love thee,
     And yet you fade away,
Like dreams that flee the memory
     At dawning of the day,
To leave behind a longing,
     A longing unfulfilled,
An unutterable yearning,
     A wish that won’t be stilled.
There is no earthly beauty
     That can for aye remain;
There is no earthly happiness
     That is not touched with pain..

                LOUIE STOCKDALE.
August 8 th, 1911