24 JANUARY 1925, Page 15

POETRY

STARS IN BUD

DIMLY, as a child makes

. Patterns in the dust, Castles of dead leaves Gathered with rakes, So spin we life's pattern Out of the dust : Knowing not why we must,

Knowing not whence we came— Rain, thunder, wind or flame—

Stamped with a human name, Born to distrust.

Strange—how much beauty Grows from the mud, Piercing the sooty sky, Stars in bud : Bursting the mind's shell Sticky as caramel Hourly and daily swell Things of tenderness, Shapes of loveliness

0 Moulded from mud.

Aye, rough and immature, Blind, breathless, dumb : Yet as the wheel Moves slow or fast, Such things may come To perfection at last. N. STALLIBRASS.