19 AUGUST 1905, Page 15



WHEN first we wandered, you and I,

Oh! you and I, o'er fell and field,

There seemed a contest—Earth and sky, Which should the greater glory yield?

Earth showed so fair, her thousand things Of beauty born, of loveliest hue : While little clouds, like angel-wings, Came flitting o'er the boundless blue.

Then, as we gazed, the Picture moved Toward us ; and the perfect grew To yet more perfect ; and it loved, The Picture loved us, me and you.

Now all is altered : faded, dim, The carmine tints are turned to grey; While winter, like a gaoler grim, With iron hand shuts in the day.

Yet still we wander, you and I, With spirits free, not winter-bound ; To us the sun is still on high, And garlands blossom underground.

Earth is but sleeping : all is there, Her fruit, her flowers, in long array ; Her robe of state, and jewels rare, To wait her coronation-day.

For suns may rise, and suns may set, And summer-leaves lie tempest-strown ; But you and I can ne'er forget The glories we have loved and known.

A. G. B.