12 MAY 1917, Page 13

POETRY.

STRAIGHT from the heart of the fire of bale, Phoenix-like out of the flame,

Prince of its power and god of its grace, Ackerman . . . Ackerman came.

Reek of the funeral pyre,

Black for the night of his hair;

White of its ashes, silent and still,

Dead in his soul, for fear;

Darkness and swirl of its shadowing smoke

Bitter as death in his eyes;

Crimson of courage aflare in his heart, Flung quenchless from earth to the skies.

Swift as the surge of its tireless flame, Tameless, unconquered, unspent, Lord of its laughter and king of its strife, Ackerman . . . . Ackerman went. E. G. Moms.