7 NOVEMBER 1925, Page 18

POETRY

CURFEW

Ifs pack of leaves The park throws down, And no bird pipes A joyous air ; Harsh world, bleak sky The -time draws nigh When to a change Intransigent His course must turn Whose youth decays : Sweet youth, sweet hour, I have plucked your flower.

Though parched with drouth.

My heavy heart, The wine is poured In other lips.

0, Tinie unblest, Bring me to rest. A. E. COPI'ARb,