2 DECEMBER 1916, Page 12

POETRY.

a tit FALLEN POET.

Now, when the soul has left its throne Behind your mortal eyes; And light, and colour, and sound are gone From the body's palaces; Still in his wood the blackbird calls, Bet there is one too few to hear, And one too few to watch the trout Swim through the music of the weir.

And once I dreamt that you were gone, As dust upon the wave, Or as a drop in some deep well, That none could sort or save ; But falling low between the stars So soon as I bad such a fear, At dusk and dawn a whisper came, " The dead are near; the dead are near." H. A.