19 JUNE 1915, Page 16

POETRY.

THE FRONT: 1915.

[o It is as if hell wars let loose.'.—Lettar from tea Front.] ARE you in hell, my son,

While I am dreaming on this grassy bill,

Ia the white blossoming Of England's frail sweet spring P

1 who no pain would shun

To save you from the lightest breath of ill, My little one.

When as a child you fell And hurt yourself on some unheeded stone, You raised your tear-stained face, That I might kiss the place, And, kissing, make it well.

Now I am here, on this green hill, alone,

And you :—in hell.

Or is it Paradise, That field where brave men fight with Giant Wrong P Where Death is changed to Life In the heroic strife, The willing sacrifice.

Where Love gives sleep to those who suffer long, And shuts their ma. Nor heaven nor hell is there, But some dim purgatorial state between, Where, purified by pain, The spirit slips its chain, And, cleaving the bright air, The young white souls, clear-eyed, austere, serene,