12 JULY 1924, Page 18

POETRY.

ORANG1I-TREE BY NIGHT.

Ir you feel for it, pressing back the glossy leaves, The fruit looks cold, as if its sullen fire is dying : So red the ember that you scarcely dare to touch it ; And when your fingers close upon its moonlike rind, Chill must be the flavour like a hidden fountain,

Whose waters sparkle springing clear from out the rock— What are its leaves then, but wings, or the wind ?-

Wings to hold the fruit high and cool it in the clouds,

Or windhlowing over those hot rocks that hold the water?

S.sczevEnnaz 'SITWELL..