15 JANUARY 1927, Page 12

Poetry

Rose and Gold

FROM my low window I behold

No skies but just a golden wood, A spread of golden grass, and gold Sheep in the golden solitude.

Somewhere the sunset turns to rose, And all the world is faintly pink, Lit through with golden fires and those Rose pools where rosy cattle drink.

Deepens the rose, a fairy hill They call the Lamb's Back, softly curled, Is now a rosy lamb and still Grows rosier in a rosy world.

Awhile my window holds the gold, The rose before they fall to grey -Ashes of roses, still and cold • On wood and hill and waterway.

KATHARINE TYNAN.