10 JULY 1941, Page 10

TO BECKY IN RHYME

THE fields of France are filled with weeping,

On shattered houses falls the rain ; And under stones the rats are reaping The sickly harvest of the slain.

The skies are charged with change and soirow ; Not only devils dare to say That those who may not see tomorrow Should suck the medlars of today.

Virtue's too stiffly bound for bending, But she can wait. For have not we Before us all the far, unending, Cold oceans of eternity?

And far you lie and foamy waters Wander between, and still I see Nothing I want in the world's fine daughters More than your memory.

DAVID WINSER.