17 OCTOBER 1931, Page 18


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.