3 SEPTEMBER 1932, Page 12

Garden Mood

I SAT in the deep garden with my friend

Near murmuring trees, upon dew-heavy grass ; We watched our stolen years lean through the glass Of memory whose moving form would bend Between us, her dim fingers flitting end To end of the dark mirror where love passed Burdened with beauty of losses that outlast This gift of burning hours life has to spend.

Of the forgotten Ideal we spoke, whose scars Alone were not among time's robberies ; Twitching with laughter on high, ironic stars Watched cold Eternity's deliberate walk.

We' heard in the gloaming a sighing of trees like seas.

Night hushed the weeping twilight and our talk.

R. L. Micacz.