The Lie
Under the grey skies I watched A sower stride across the field ; He flung the seed with easy trust, Sure, without thought, the seed would yield.
I knew it, too—knew from a heart Grounded in years of country-lore ; But in that heart no sweetness sprang To know all would be as before.
Bather, 'with bitteiness I said, Though iron frost bind everything, Sure it is that the green will come— But, ah, for me there conies no Spring: Now still the skies above are grey, Out of the hedge no leaf-buds peep, The birds are quiet still, and still In the dark earth the small buds sleep ; But I no need of April have, No need to wait until the Spring, For suddenly my field is green, I put on leaves, I hear birds sing. . . .
Then take no count of seasons, heart, For you have given them the lie : How easy now for you to say Things are not dead although they die.
C. HENRY WARREN.
[Extreme pressure on our space compels us to omit-this .week the Message from India, our Travel article, and the final extracts from the Diaries of Robert Fulke Greville (shortly to be published in book form by Messrs. John Lane; Under the editorship of Mr. -F. McKno Bladon). We welconte, however, a new. contributor, "Orion," who begins his hunt for the " topics that glitter; the thoughts that excite," week. by week.--
ED. SPECTATOEJ -
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