7 DECEMBER 1912, Page 37

POETRY.

A CYCLE.

OLD men weave memories, sitting in the sun, Of a world grown vain, whose one-time vaunted scars The soft moss covers, and whose rare bazaars— That sold them Truth—new, wayward chafferers shun For strange and impious markets. One by one, Dimmed by an alien flame, the unwinking stars That cheered their vigils fade ; till Death unbars To their bruised eyes his kind pavilion.

0 glory of the young day's harbinger !

Yet, lest our kindling pride too madly burn, And lusty boast our sicklier deeds outrun, Mark we the portent, and forebode the year When dazed and blind we likewise, in our turn Old men, weave memories, sitting in the sun.

Parr. J. FIBEEB.