6 JULY 1929, Page 17

Poetry

A Young Thrush

WHAT power of will—to follow now,

In this cold hour of fear, His studies in dead sticks and stones, With all this danger near !

So here we stand, with breathless looks, As figures made of stone ; Till, knowing that the poor thing's heart Beats faster than my own, I, creeping backward, silently, Am happy to be gone. W. H. DAVIES,