POETRY.
THE ENGLISH GRAVES. THE rains of yesterday are flown, And light is on the farthest hills. The homeliest rough grass by the stone With radiance thrills ;
And the wet bank above the ditch, Trailing its thorny bramble, shows Soft apparitions, clustered rich, Of the pure primrose.
The shining stillness breathes, vibrates From simple earth to lonely sky, A hinted wonder that awaits The heart's reply.
0 lovely life! the chaffinch sings High on the hazel, near and clear.
Sharp to the heart's blood sweetness springs In the morning here.
Bat my heart goes with the young cloud That voyages the April light Southward, across the beaches loud And cliffs of white To fields of France, far fields that spread Beyond the tumbling of the waves, And touches as with shadowy tread The English graves.
There too is Earth that never weeps, The nnrepining Earth, that holds The secret of a thousand sleeps And there unfolds Flowers of sweet ignorance on the slope Where strong arms dropped and blood choked breath, Earth that forgets all things but hope And smiles on death . They poured their spirits out in pride. They throbbed away the price of years; Now that dear ground is glorified With dreams, with tears.
A flower there is sown, to bud And bloom beyond our loss and smart.
Noble France, at its root is blood From England', heart. LAURENCE iSINTON.
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