21 APRIL 1906, Page 17

POETRY.

THE FLOWER-GATHERERS. I LEFT behind the ways of care, The crowded hurrying hours, I breathed again the woodland air, I plucked the woodland flowers :

Bluebells as yet but half awake, Primroses pale and cool,

Anemones like stars that shako In a green twilight pool—

On these still lay the enchanted shade, The magic April sun ; With my own child a child I strayed And thought the years were one.

As through the copse she went and camp My senses lost their truth ;

I called her by the dear dead name

That sweetened all my youth.

HENILY NEWBOLT.