22 SEPTEMBER 1928, Page 11

Poetry

The Pessimists

SEVEN pigeons sat together

Grumbling at the horrid weather On a tall roof's topmost twist, Like a row of poor old men Cradled in an icy mist Hardly moving. Now and then One of them would dip a bill

Into plumage ruffed and chill— Downward swirled a single feather— Mournfully they watched it go,

Mournfully they saw it fall Drifting like a plume of snow, Like a joy beyond recall ; Mournfully they huddled there In the still and bitter air. ROSEMARY CnorT