4 NOVEMBER 1922, Page 16

POETRY.

CATHEDRAL INTERIOR.

THE pear-shaped saffron candle-flames

Leap in the velvet-bosomed dark, The priest speaks gently of God's claims To wistful folk with coughs that bark.

Here all is hushed and rabbit-still, The bull-necked columns, numb with gout Of countless ages by God's will Cast crêpe-like shadows long and stout.

Two narrow slits of coloured glass Are pierced by spears of mellow light.

The only light allowed to pass Into this consecrated night.

Behind a candelabra droops A crucifix of burnished gold, A ray of dancing sunbeams swoops Across the cobwebbed arches old.

Here may the sick, the bleeding one Nurture his wounds and calm his fears.

Here when their joy in life is done Poor, crumbling men gulp salty tears.

And knotted fingers counting beads, And prayers half-whispered never cease.

Man slumbers ; only heaven heeds, Here in this hollow womb of peace.

HAROLD ACTON.