POETRY.
FOUNTAINS; Pam], fountains, wave your plumes, Spread out your phoenix-wing, Lot the tired trees rejoice Under your blossoming (Tired trees, you whisper low).
High up, high up, above These green and drooping sails, A fluttering young wind Hovers and plays—but fails To steal a foaming feather.
Sail, like a crystal ship, Above your sea of glass ; Then, with your quickening touch, Transmute the things that pass (Come clown, cool wind, come down).
All humble things proclaim Within your magic net, Their kinship to the Gods, More strange and lovely yet All lovely things become.
Dead sculptured stone assumes The life from which it came. The kingfisher is now
A moving tongue of flame— A blue, live tongue of flame.
While birds, less proud of wing, Crouch in wind-ruffled shade, Hide shyly, then pour out Their jealous serenade.
. Close now your golden wings.
OSBERT SITWELL.
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