16 MAY 1896, Page 17

TO MY CYCLE.

DEAR other self, so silent, swift, and sure, My dumb companion of delightful days, Might fairy fingers from thy orbit rays Of steel strike music, as the gods of yore From reed or shell ; what melodies would pour On my glad ears; what songs of woodland ways,

Of summer's wealth of corn, or the sweet lays

Of April's budding green ; while evermore We twain, one living thing, flash like the light Down the long tracks that stretch from sky to sky.

Thou halt thy music too ; what time the noon Beats sultry on broad roads, when, gathering night, We drink the keen-edged air ; or, darkling, fly 'Twixt hedgerows blackened by a mystic moon.

ADRIEL VERE.