POETRY.

THE RUINED BARN.

Luis ashes in a hearth disused Nets with an old disjointed flail In careless litter lie confused With adder's scarf, while on a nail Some shrivelled skin just holds together A wind-worn tassel of bone and feather That once in rapture of winged desire Hung on the air, free hovering fire.

Of a June morning when the frisking hare Forgot timidity in dew-drenched grass Gathered about those ready opened doors The company of shearers clean and trim.

Then close-pent flocks with constant bleating Were by the shepherds passed through hurdled alleys To each man ready in the central space.

Warm daylight flooded Through the wide doorway gable-hooded.

Sound bleat with mellowed sound from floor to rafter, The cluck of clipping with the thud of hooves And with the tweet of swallows in the eaves Fleece-laden, brown-armed women's laughter.

At harvest time unwonted strangers came : Dark olive faces of the wandering tribe That scorns house cover and our mattressed beds, And Irish casuals from grey, distant hills That watch forever where Atlantis drowned.

Then East and West under this roof As in one nest slumbered and dreamed.

Speak old lanthorn—you must remember Of all the times that you were lit At least that one when the babe was born Here in the barn one cold grey morn.

None heeded you though the daylight grew And gaunt grey shadows on wall and rafter Paled and withdrew, and the tallow dip

Flickered and flared to the end in Socket.

At the living treasure, the child brought forth From her mother pocket, the gipsy stared: Not with pain (that was well over), Not with pleasure (no joy could move her), Not with pride (that was laid aside), But jet eyes wide with a vast calm wonder.

Look! it was in that corner yonder.

Ever of old in winter time Sheaves were laid upon this floor In even rows from door to door.

Slowly with a rhythmic beat Tingling with a welcome heat Moved the thresher with his flail Golden grain about his feet.

Three times each year was feasting— Shearing, Harvest and Christmastide— And merry sounds in such a barn

A song, while merry hearts abide.

Here were the trestles and here was the hoard,

And here sat the master with his men, And this was the song with one accord

They sang and sang and sang again-

" Turn the bowl over, over and over, Life's a dry crust but to-night we're in clover : I've been to London and I've been a rover : Brim the bowl, drain the bowl, turn the bowl over!"

Like careless letters scribbled on the sky Or children's stitches in a wavering line, A flock of plovers moves towards the hills.

They change not with the years; they note no change Though men in new ways work and barns decay.

Seedlip and sickle, winnowing sieve and flail Unheeded pass away—an epoch dies.

Grown weak and weaker now thy ruined walls

Sink down as surely as a sail that falls When the wind ceases and the cords are loosed.

No monument will be thine—the passing hour Heeds thee as little as fruit the vanished flower.

Yet hest thou been the barn this verse records Though now no more than its remembered words.

A. Hoofs FISHER.