14 APRIL 1933, Page 17

Poetry

Deirdre Remembers

THE snows of sleep are on his shoulder,

folded and drifted on his breast,

I turn from them, and from the colder

flower of his face at rest.

Turn and return, rocked, lost, past all imagined embrace of slumber, and to keep me warm -

lay may head where the drifts in deepest number

sleep on his boyish arm.

Spent thus, I watch the night surrender

slowly and impereept ibly to dawn,

knowing that gradual light is not more tender than mine, that waits upon

his first stirring, his first surprised awaking, to find me he7e,

his first gentle reproof (my body shaking) like music in my ear. R. N. D.