18 JUNE 1921, Page 15

POETRY.

What ails you now ? Are you too near to me, Near my brow ?

Why so furtively Wavers your light; • Leaving a jagg'd brown edge On the night ?

Is it the trouble Inside my brain Enveloping your lustre With dull pain ?

Does the old despair I buried deep Clutch you with unseen fingers Half asleep ?

'Fear you to serve me The while I sit • With head bent over the paper Yet unwiit ? R. L. 31tanoz.