24 MARCH 1923, Page 40

POETRY.

GREEN RAIN.

INTO the scented woods we'll go,

And see the blackthorn swim in snow.

High above, in the budding leaves, A brooding dove awakes and grieves ; The glades with mingled music stir, And wildly laughs the woodpecker.

When blackthorn petals pearl the breeze, There are the twisted hawthorn trees Thick set with buds, as clear and pale As golden water or green hail ; As if a storm of rain had stood Enchanted in the thorny wood, And, hearing fairy voices call, Hung poised, forgetting how to fall:

MARY WEBB.