13 NOVEMBER 1920, Page 14

THE WEAVING. Tin moon is weaving in the street A

tanglement for passing feet That must go always up and down From the river to the town.

For men walk there who never see The lovely gestures that a tree Makes over them when they go by; These men never see the slu.

Their hearts are heavy and they walk With timid eyes. They never talk. And so the moon is making there, Out of her shining, beautiful hair,

Reflection of the branches so These tired, awkward men may know, By looking on the ground they love.

What excellent beauty moves above.

HAROLD Lzwis-Coorc.