18 JULY 1925, Page 18

POETRY

MIDGES

RAIDERS from Borderland Outcasts of earth and air Your ways are hard to understand, Your bites are bad to bear.

With swollen hands mine eyes I rub, Cursing your god, Beelzebub.

Whence your- devouring hordes ?

And must we count it true That as creation is the Lord's, There lives some use, in you ?

Or may we think from grace ye fell, And now are wandering sparks of hell ?

Spoilers of summer peace !

Prompters of speech profane!

Not till your fierce marauderings cease Can I my tongue refrain, Till night has stayed your stabs and stings

It utters energetic things.

T. THORNELY.