Poetry
Out in the Woods. . . . October
CowcaoFr Woods are green yet, For oaks are late in turning ; But the copses up at Hunridge, Of beech, are slowly burning To leaflessness through splendour, To nakedness through gold . .
And I talk about their beauty With a heart untouched and told In Lady Wood the fir trees Are whispering and soughing ; Across the field from Spencer's Come men and horses ploughing, A moment silhouetted Against the mellow sky . . . .
' On my tongue is cheerful banter, In my heart vapidity.
From off the spendthrift branches The ripened leaves are falling ; Across the trodden stubble The partridges are calling . . . .
In my mouth is talk and laughter, In my heart a quickened pain For a little white fox-terrier That will never hunt again.
EVELYN D. BANGAY.
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