7 FEBRUARY 1925, Page 15

POETRY,

THE MESSENGER

IT was that time of tender light When eastern slopes shine like the rose ; Before the lashes of the night Droop wanly, ere the eyelids close.

A quietness, profound, intense, Mad,e the one robin's song a word Of intuitive innocence, A portent such as men have heard When soul-catastrophes have stirred Their senses to a quickened pace.

I listened, hushed with reverence, Rich with a sudden gift of grace In that dark and lonely place.

RICHARD CU ERCEire