13 MARCH 1920, Page 16

POETRY.

SUBMARINES.

Tus firth lay like a dragon's tongue to-night Flaming to westward: with her smoke afire The far town rose beyond, a Viking's pyre; Then one by one those ranging shafts of light, With passing benediction fading home, Have left such lake of calm on sea and land, The ripple scarcely moves to stir the foam Or lift a bubble from the quiet sand.

Not on the living falls so wide a peace! Arrows of silver striking on the bay, The terns are hunting still in plumes of spray: The weasel crouches there beneath the trees; Under the calm of those reflecting seas Man to was waiting, waiting all the day.

HERBERT ASQLITII.