4 AUGUST 1923, Page 14

POETRY.

THE SWIFTS.

Now, day by day, the season drifts To autumn. See the gathering swifts As busy as a good ship's crew, In suits of white and navy blue ; About the masts they lift and dip As though the tree were a sailing ship With green sail swelling in the wind : Yet the strange spirit of their kind That sends the birds adventuring, With scent or sound of foreign spring Breathes an enchantment from the sea, And wild hearts answer restlessly : So shall to-morrow find them flown,

Their ship—forsaken and alone—

A derelict, her gallant sail Flying in rags before the gale. CLARA ASPINALL.