26 MARCH 1932, Page 12

Silver-Point

LATE last night the moon lay

With no move on wet, quiet yew ; No foot, through that hush of amber, Stained acres of grey dew.

It was then, when birds slept

And song dreamt under each wing, That you eyed the quiet and gave us Music from its pale sleeping.

As Time turned back in that sleep, You, Seumas O'Sullivan, Set all the gay ladies of Whaley Raiding your Georgian lawn.

There Buck steered an Arabic stallion, Necked like a scimitar, Frantic through ladies who scattered As fragments of one rent star.

They're gone ; yet each shining delight Again tip-toes the dew-

Dusk-quiet, light-shy in June midnights Of twilight—for you ; For you, who quicken cold joy, From a world scarcely awake That gleams, as the far sad glory