28 MARCH 1908, Page 19

POETRY.

NOT NOW.

FEw are the days of Spring, And short the April hours : We have no time to sing Or dance, between the showers; We have no time to stray Along the woodland lanes, And plan our little day Of honours and of gains ; For, ere the sun be high, Or even noon has come, So lurid grows the sky

That we must hasten home—

To find our hearthstone void, To see our bright estate By one strong shaft destroy'd : And we are desolate.

Ah yes ! It is not here.

It is not thus nor now, While we beside the bier Lie stunn'd and spent and

low,—

It is not thus, that we, Or such as we, can tell How true those words may be— He doeth all things well.

ARTHUR MURRY.