18 JUNE 1921, Page 15
POETRY.
What ails you now ? Are you too near to me, Near my brow ?
Why so furtively Wavers your light; • Leaving a jagg'd brown edge On the night ?
Is it the trouble Inside my brain Enveloping your lustre With dull pain ?
Does the old despair I buried deep Clutch you with unseen fingers Half asleep ?
'Fear you to serve me The while I sit • With head bent over the paper Yet unwiit ? R. L. 31tanoz.