23 JULY 1937, Page 13

THE DEAD JAY

A WITLESS, pert, bedizened fop,

Man mocks, resembles you ; But, now and then, a prince of such Proves rascal through and through. And sorrowing simple birds agree It is his nature to.

But now the wind blows bleak, my friend, And taps a crazed. tattoo= _ Nature—habit—instinct—grace Not ours, I fear, the clue.

Yet 'tis not wholly sentiment That bids a cold Yahoo Grieve as he drinks from death-stilled wing That miracle of blue.

WALTER DE LA MARE.