POETRY.

THE SMELLS OF HOME.

I SHUT the door and left behind

The reek of wounds—the cries

Of "Sister! Sister! Go steady, Sister,"—

The hateful sight of flies That come like mourners dressed in black, And will not be thrust aside, But over the sheets come prying back To a hand where blood has dried.

A scented slap of morning wind Came suddenly as I stood, The grim things of the ward shut out By a panel or two of wood.

O wind! C.:11 it be the meadows of Francs That you oome whistling through ? ' - For these are the smells of my own country You carry along with you.

The breath of ferns and pale marsh-flowers, Of meadowsweet and phlox, Drowsed apricot, of gorse that flames In the purple shadow of rocks, The warm, hewn fragrance of red fir, And (smell of heart's desire !) Blue incense from the peat that smoulders Upon an English fire.

The chilly sweetness of drenched things At morning when the sky Shows yellow behind a bird's dark wings And threads of mist go by.

Strange air blows cold from another world, The still fields shine like glass, A minute goes like a thousand years, And there are pearls in the grass.

0 wind ! Can it be the meadows of France That you come sighing through ?

For these are the things of my own country Whose scent you bring with you.

Dawn on the bog, and burning peat, A wild sea tattered with foam,

Red heather on the eternal hills—

These are the smells of home.

ROSILEBN GRAVEL.