26 JULY 1930, Page 12

Native Forest

FAST-ROOTED, with no sound, no stir,

Stood up magnificent the trees : And what had I, a traveller Distraught, to do with these ?

Cool-throated in that green arcade, The singing birds took wing and rose : And what had I, whom Nature made Of Earth, to do with those ?

Yet wildness of the singing bird,

And stillness of the anchored green—

Nothing more native have I heard, Nothing more native seen : For now the forest trees dark-lit My dark imagination throng, And bright words in the branches flit, The flying gold of song.

G. HOSTREVOR HAMILTON.