13 MARCH 1926, Page 25

N1GHTWIND

ALONG the lifted line of sombre green The sunset bonfire calms in golden space ; The one hedge-oak against the splendour seen Like a squat idol grossly stares at grace ; The white star comes, but no one saw it come, The music is the nightwind in the thorn, The young bird doubts, and stirs, and nestles home ; That winged dew murmurs on.

0 Vesper-bore

Stiff-necked I stand like that same knotty tree, As if heaven were my halo : thy dim span Seems but from reed to petal ; but began And died. Thy moment was infinity. I bowed not, trembled not ; as though I were The carven botch of an idolater.

EDMUND BLUNDEN.