16 AUGUST 1919, Page 17

POETRY.

THE NIGHTINGALE NEAR THE HOUSE. HERE is the soundless cypress on the lawn: It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond

Stares. And you sing, you sing.

That star-enchanted song falls through the air From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound, Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground; And all the night you sing.

My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee As all night long I listen, and my brain Receives your song, then loses it again In moonlight on the lawn.

Now is your voice a marble high and white, Then is like mist on fields of paradise, Now is a raging fire, then is like ice, Then breaks, and it is dawn.

HAROLD MEMO.