30 OCTOBER 1926, Page 23

Sacrament

GREY is the earth, And the sky is grey : Is it the break

Or the close of day ?

From each curling bud And branch's tip, I hear the dew's Thin bell-like drip.

Could April be More grey ? or I More weary of doubts That never fly ?

But see ! a kingcup I have found : The land seems lit For miles around.

And brimful of The coming-sweet- All for a kingcup Down at my feet.

I kneel and take it In my hands, Half-believing It understands.

How suddenly radiant On my eyes Are the grey earth And the grey skies. And hark ! across The hills I hear A Sanctus bell Ringing clear.

One . . . two . . . three, I hear it chime, Till the meadows tingle With its rhyme.

They have shut their eyes On the lifted Host. Their hearts are filled With the Holy Ghost.

And I out here In the dove-grey grass, Where the dews rustle Like wings that pass, Have clasped my fingers Round the cup Of a little flower : I have lifted it up.

And all the fragrance

Of the Spring Seems gathered to My heart : I sing.

I am so brimmed With the coming-sweet- And all for a kingeup Down at my feet !

C. HENRY WARREN.