17 NOVEMBER 1923, Page 14

POETRY.

AUTUMN DUSK.

Oun field looks strange in this half-light, With grey grass stumbling out of sight To some far hedge. The wind-comes here - From woods where the brown cold year Dies out among bared trees. Night brings The scent of soaked leaves on her wings.

The spiders lay their silk-spun thread On the low Wind. Our feet.tread Sadly among the sodden grass That holds our footprints as we pass.

Dark grows. This lonely. sound must be Our stream, lapping the grass, gently. Walk toward it—the hollows shine With mist. Our crab tree's blurred outline Shows us the -gate . . .

In the lane now, The mist spreads the bare thorn bough, The mist holds the dropped leaves still, That ran, before, at the wind's will.

DOROTHY- ROBEHT0.