POETRY.
THE ASH WALK.
A POINTED arch inthe grey wall Leads where the slanting sunbeams fall On the white path of river sand, And, ranged in rank, great ash trees stand.
Not theirs the oak's round massive lines, Nor measured symmetry of pines ; Each, vast yet limber, in his place Grows with an =dictated grace.
High soars the feathery cloud of green, Light, fluttering, touched with wavering sheen, And rifted, where the sky shows through, In jewelled fretwork, lucent blue. Such in their stateliness are these, Born very nobles of the trees. No strugglers, scant of light and air, But fenced and favoured all with care, And rooted where to heart's desire Kindly the air and soil conspire. Bounteous in beauty there they stand, Bounteous in shelter to the land, By their mere breathing making sweet The air to creatures at their feet ; Fulfilling all their purpose meant With glory and with ornament.
Bea how, like conscious creatures, they Breathe in the blue soft Irish day, And the delighted air receives The lovely answer of their leaves, To the soft wind among them playing, In ceaseless gentle motion swaying : As when a woman fond and fair Feels on her wealth of loose-piled hair Her lover's hand and, sweetly bent,
hispers a sigh of mere content, While faint and happy motions flow Across her face and come and go ; So in the swaying boughs you guess The gentle stir of happiness.
0 perishable splendour, fraught With mortal sadness to zni thought Look what a tide of sap there heaves In yonder sapling toward the leaves With rustling seedpods laden down; And then—behold yon barren crown. For of the band one giant there Stands in the noon of summer bare. No need to wait the wintry blast: Leaf-time and fruitage long are past : The naked boughs but last to show How one has gone, how all must go. And when sad ebbing of the sap Wrecks that brave phalanx, gap by gap, Alas ! what rabble shall be found Crowding upon the vacant ground !
And, as I looked, I was aware Of other orders passing there, Of other goodly lives that stand Stately and spacious in the land, Of gallant creatures, born to life Exempt from toil, exempt from strife, That in this age's bitter mood Shall scarcely find their stock renewed, Till some sad morning wakes, and sees No more such folk, no more such trees.
STEPHEN GWYNN.
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