11 FEBRUARY 1938, Page 12


PARCHED, panting, he awoke—phantasmal light Haunting the hollows of his fevered eyes— And muttered of his journeyings in the night, Striving in words the vision to devise :— An Island, lit with beauty like a flower, Its sea of sapphire ringed with ocean's snow ; Its air a music, seeming hour by hour From urn divine of silence forth to flow.

A heart all innocence, and innately wise, Life there a song of love had seemed to be : " A candle whose flame," he stammered, " never dies, But feeds on light itself perpetually . . .

Me . . . this—a thing corrupt on grave's cold brink ; And into outer darkness soon to sink ! "

The tired nurse yawned. " It was a dream," she said.

" But this is real ! Look, it's nearly day." She smoothed the pillow for his sweat-dark head, And muttered, " Mental," as she turned away.