1 NOVEMBER 1946, Page 14

THE VALLEY

IF you would meet the dead, and love and laugh

With those who lost all beauty long ago, Come to my valley. Where the stream runs clear, The stones like deep brown eyes of startled deer, Through sun-gilt tangles where the willows grow, There wait.

All ghosts who ever loved will gather there To see the heron tear the night away ; To see the feeble first-lights pierce the pools, The ripples glance and flatten in the cools, And drink fulfilment of that rose-shot grey, Elate.

The grasses stir . . . the dew-clad bushes shake . . 4 The ashes, silvered dancing-girls, awake . . . And rustling whispers stir the hazel-brake . . .

CATHERINE PETERS.