24 FEBRUARY 1923, Page 16

THE POET TO HIS MISTRESS.

(IN THE ANCIENT FASHION.) MY love, when I am near to thee,

Like lightning pass the years, Time in Iambics seems to be, It is a short long time to me.

But, love, when I am far from thee, Each minute seems an hour, And so in Trochees time doth flee, It is a long short time to me.

But now I've waited years to see The face that brings content : Moments all Spondees seem to be, It is a long, long time to me. DAVID MORE.