24 MARCH 1923, Page 40

THE UNEMPLOYED.

THE dead men to the living call :

Brothers of old, how goes the day ? Is there ripe fruit on the Southern wall Rich with our blood that rot in clay ?

Brothers of the great brotherhood Do they fling roses for your feet ? The living heard them where they stood Idle, or trudged the pitiless street.

Hopeless, unwanted. Brothers of old How go the song, the dance, the mirth ? So you are warm, we are not cold Lapped in impenetrable earth.

The victors stand in the market-place And no man gives them wine or bread : Would that we too had won that race And earned the clay-cold rest I they said.

But to be dead, to lie alone They answered : it is well : go sleep, Never to know what we have known : ,

With dreams to keep : with dreams to keep.

KATHARINE TYNAN.