24 MARCH 1933, Page 15

The Deserted Village

Tim moaning of the grey wet wind all day : The peevish bickerings of childish birds Kept prisoners in the yew's dry shade : a way, Immovable by hedges, patient herds Have learnt to pass away the gloomy hours : The sleep of death that comes o'er villages When no one stirs abroad, and drooping flowers The wind and rain unmercifully press In gardens long forsaken by the tread Of feet that loved to wander down the paths Now rippling tiny skies of molten lead.

How like a winding-sheet the tempest swathes All things—the trees, the houses, and the mind Of him who peers forth sadly at the day I—. For though he sees, 'tis yet as one half blind With memories, through ages of dismay.

ROMILLY