15 NOVEMBER 1930, Page 13

My Rest You Ate

FROM THE GERMAN.]

My rest you are, My star of peace, Who wrought my wound, Then gave it ease.

My heart is loud With tumult sweet, Being now vowed For your retreat.

Oh, enter then, And after you The door again Draw gently to.

Change its unworthy Earthly mould To your pure shrine Of joyful gold.

My eyes from yours Alone draw light ; With their love-fires Oh, fill them quite

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.