19 DECEMBER 1903, Page 17

POETRY.

STARLINGS IN NOVEMBER.

THIS month is mournful to the starved eyes,

And for its mouldering sweetness to the sense, With its soaked, matted grass, and its smeared skies ; But through these murky vapours, stagnant, dense, Of the dull, wet fog that envelops all, Is not the starlings' music magical !

Mark the glozed gamuts of their slurring notes, Now smooth as oil, that the wild waves allays ; Now like fresh water bubbling from their throats ; Now powdered fine, as a plumed fountain plays,— Stinting no various vocal way to charm This gentle time from hated Winter's harm.

What, to the bare earth, beggared and bankrupt, The days of bright gold back if it should bring !- Then some wood-pigeon, tenderly abrupt, Out of the gloom called like a ghost of Spring,— Called and broke off, in the dank, dripping shade Of her own passionate fervour grown afraid.

But listen ! how at once one hears a wail Of rising wind, and all their spells are vain, Nor shall avert the rude and violent gale;

And though no gust yet strays, nor streak of rain— As one not to be reft himself bereaves—

The aged oaks strip them of their last leaves.

Lucuze.