6 AUGUST 1927, Page 17

Poetry

The Singers

SING, crickets, in the dusk, About my caravan,

Sing loudly if you must, Sweet if you can.

Sing from that sandy soil Where briers grow, To hide your little homes Not proud but low : Sing where small roses wild, Whose petals fall, Rise sweetest in the dark Not seen at all.

Sing for this summer's day, Grown warm and long. Sing for the very joy There is in song.

Sing to the saffron sky, Streaked red and soon, When it has 'failed, sing on To the pale moon.

Sing in that scented night Invisibly, And as you always do, Sing cheerfully.

MONK GIBBON.