6 NOVEMBER 1942, Page 11


THEY sat upon a hill,

They could forget The dark oppressive roof-tops of the town.

They drank their fill ; The buttercups were wet ; The evening sunlight, webbed and mystical, Transfused the iron bands, that were clamped down On their bright hair; the fetters of the mill Became a circlet and a coronet.

The wheels poised and the hammers were laid still.

But now the night is deep, The caverns burn, The great machine is grinding in a dream.

They cannot weep, The coronet is stem, The fountain of their tears has ceased to gleam: Somewhere men lie ; somewhere the waters churn With flame consumed ; somewhere the bullets team In this dark night, and wreathe their brows with iron, With the dread weight of an eternal sleep. DIANA JAMES.