25 JULY 1925, Page 20

POETRY

. THE PATH

So sweet to walk Doves in the trees The print of Spring, Flings a hot scent And lip to lip Now rapture dies So still they 'could hear And on the heart . And they believed, Of life that takes Time had. no power, Of life that leaves With briar and grass Green of eve, So tangled and hid They walk apart,

C. HENRY WARREN.