31 AUGUST 1929, Page 19

Poetry

On Those Hills

ON those hills

where no sound is, but of bells swung by the breeze,— silent bells

of purple ling—

nothing else does stir or sing.

There all day hills green and gold dream away the hours untold, dream of gay, glad songs unsung, till the grey night falls, star-hung.

On those hills where rivers grow the mist fills the sunset's glow with jonquils that deck the tom, while rain spills pearls on the moors.

And there I would gladly be, the still sky comforting me, as the sigh that the winds bring rustles by the dancing ling. A. R. U.