4 JANUARY 1952, Page 17

A Roman Coin

Sixteen centuries have gone Since warm from a man's hand it fell, And the soil's dark haulm closed over it. Now on an outstretched palm again It lies ; the laurel wreath, the worn Legend, the dark, eroded face Livid beneath an alien sun.

Yet, as the farmer turns it, stares.

Sixteen centuries roll by, And at his side the Roman stands Who also loved this land, who saw Beyond his fields of wheat and rye The sea, the same sea rise and fall Quiet as a sleeping breast, as quiet As he who lost the coin, as he Who found and holds it now, shall lie.

MARGARET STANLEY-WRENCH.