15 OCTOBER 1927, Page 18

Poetry

The Grasshopper

Pan, Pan, the wind is still,

The grass is poised on the sullen hill, There is no life and earth is dun,

For see, I have maimed your little one.

Pan, Pan, ah pity me !

I held him as gossamer, tenderly, Laughed for joy when he scrabbled and beat' The vault of my hands with his spindled feet.

Song of summer, his voice is dead, Unheeded the flowers are—over the head

Of the harbinger, the first begotten—

See, he is gone, but he has forgotten This small green leg. -

= G. SATow.