POETRY.

THE DANCERS.

I DREAMED a dream more stable than the gross

Pyramid crushing those slow desolate sands, Yet swift as time it sank into the sands Like a bright snake that slides into his hole Startled by shaking footsteps yet far off.

It was a dream of hoar and lonely hills

Snow-cloaked, and in their hollows hills of snow,

But in their lowest valleys melting hedges Above the shaded snows. A garden crept From a deserted house along the hedge, Half snow, half a green ruin ; but the rose, The rose already bloomed above the snow, Already mocked with her young lips the wan And trembling lips of winter dying slowly Upwards from foot to head, body to spirit.

The day passed in a flash to night, the rose Nursed her cold cheek in dreams of whispered spring, And slept. Then the deserted house awoke, Lights danced out through the easement on the snows, And shadows danced with echoes ; for within Moved the bright shapes of dancers happy and proud,

And music danced with them and all was dancing—

Lights, shadows, music, echoes and dancers together.

Last a new music marshal'd other steps, Every quick heart was fluttered and leapt, for now Sword dances and the thrill of shrilling reeds Admonished them of other thoughts than love.

For mid the dancers stept two new-come figures, Bright Honour, armed and ruddy, Death unarmed, Serene. And Honour laughed and caught the hand Shining with steady gems of tranquil Death, And leaned his head, murmuring a heedless jest, Nor shivered at the lifting of those lids From shallow azure eyes. Then Death too smiled And danced ; they danced together while the reeds Shrilled slowlier, hushed, and muted ; but these danced Yet with the silence until darkness drew, And all within was still, without was snow.

The night lay like a heavier snow of time, While some of battles dreamed and stratagems, Of ancient fading splendours some, and some Masculine dreams of sere and sad delight.

All dreamed and waking wondered which was dream.

And this that seemed more stable than the gross Pyramid, stranger than the wrinkled Sphinx,

Sank in the sands like any mortal thing—

A life that burns its little life away, A candle dying of its shining.

With a Copy of the Foregoing.

With my quick hand I write this flickering verse Like sullen woods flickering in crafty light ; With this familiar hand that's scored elm-like By stealthy-creeping life, by love deep-sunk, And death that characters over all ; with this Fond hand that shakes with the slow stumbling pulse Till the pulse fail—like a child stumbling on Along a rutted road and laughing towards His father who will catch him when he falls.

JOHN FREEMAN.