POETRY.
NOW IS THE SUNLIGHT MELLOW.
Now is the sunlight mellow and the beech-leaves Fall to the dank mould and fade and shrivel.
Now in the north comes winter whistling boldly ; And the last colours of the day are passing.
To the dark house of memory I've gathered, Through the long hours, rich store of varied treasures ; And now they lie, their loveliness concealing, Like precious cloths hid in a room of darkness, Their gold and blue and saffron from all seeing Shut, save when the miser's meagre candle Furtively on their gloom a brightness throws. . . .
Oh, that upon my darkness, swift-revealing, Would break some light of faith and show a purpose In this of suffering, and that of laughter, In all this beauty at the senses knocking, And all that loveliness so knit with sorrow !
But still to the dank mould the leaves are falling ; Shrill and more shrill the wind in the north whistles, And the Wit colour of the day has fled. . . .
C. HENRY WARREN.
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