13 AUGUST 1921, Page 16

POETRY.

AWAKE!

WHY hath the rose faded and fallen, yet these eyes have not seen ?

Why hath the bird sung shrill in the tree, and this mind deaf and cold ?

Why have the summer rains veiled her flowers fresh and green, And this black heart untold ?

Here is calm autumn now, the woodlands quake; And, where this splendour of death lies under the tread, The spectre of frost will stalk, and a silence make, And snow's white shroud be spread.

0 Self ! 0 Self ! Wake from thy common sleep.

Fling off the Destroyer's net, he hath blinded and bound thee. In nakedness sit ; pierce thy stagnation, and weep ; Or corrupt in thy grave—all heaven around thee.

WALTER DE LA. MARE.