POETRY.

'TWIXT NIGHT AND DAY.' Down through the shuttered house we crept Where men in slumber lay, Unbarred the heavy door and stepped Into an alien day.

It was not dark nor was it light,

But by mysterious change The things familiar yesternight

Appeared remote and strange.

The tangled hedgerow's drowsed with dew; Tall elm and dripping thorn ; The path that wandered round and through The fields of ripening corn; The empty meadows far below; The road that climbed the hill; The silent poplars all a-row

Beside the silent mill,

Seemed parts of some old world submerged

By flood, above the plain

Of waters, fresh and throughly purged, Appearing once again.

Nought moved: all things that haunt the night Had crept to lair and den, While still slept those that love the light And share the day with men.

Then through dark pinewoods up the steep-

We climbed with muffled tread As though we feared to break the sleep

Of wood-nymphs still a-bed;

And soon, the hill-top gained, behold,

Hanging dew-pale and dim,

The lonely sun some two hours old With none to welcome him!

Then all at once in garth and field, From hedge-bank, bush and brake, A hundred silvery bugles pealed

And bade the world awake;

The farm-yard cocks crowed loud and shrill, Gates 'clanged and; down the lane, With splash and creak beside the mill The wheel went round again, Grime pound, Newton Abbot. W. G. Hor.r...