BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1240, 23 September 1911, Page 9

BOOKS AND AUTHORS.

VERSES OLD AND NEW. THE I'TjAST. Fly low swallows, Hills grow clear, All tho little leaves know Someone's near. All along tho hedgerow, Hark, and yon shall hear Little cups and saucer's Clinking, clinking, V Little cups and saucers' far' and near, Gathered round the tables, * Each small guest Whispers ilo is closo nowj. Coming from tho west, Whispers He is close now, Coming from the cast. Hark, and you shall hear them Stalling, stealing, Heralds of the Giver of the Feast. Grows a little cloud now, Man's hand high, Not a voice is heard now, Bor.t each eye, Never was so mouse-still Earth, air, sky, Waiting for the Great One, Great One, Great One, Waiting for t'ho Great Ono to como by. On® drop, two drops, Ah, how wo pray, Pass us not, 0 Great One, Great One, stay. ' nush, nil—shout then Hand, heart, brain, All our little cups full, Caps full, laps full* All our little tables, Miles of littlo tables, • Drumming with the rapture of tho Rain. —H. 11. Bashford, in the "Spectator." I ASK. My happy limo is gold with flowers; All day the courting breeds blow On love pipes; and tbe wild l«es boat Tho drums of summer; gay tho hours Fly past, . . .' A woman in tho heat, Poor soul, lies dying down below!

I lay between the.rose so red, And honey-whitened lily cup,. Receiving Hoaven. . . . And, in view, There in the held, a calf was dead, Whose lightless' velvet eyo looked up Al that samo burning summer blue I

Behind the fairest masks of life, It seems, lies this palo constant death. What, my philosophers, to say? Shall wo keep wistful death to wife? Or hide her imago deep away, And, wanton, draw forgetful breath? —Johfa Galsworthy, in tho "Nation." THE PRESENT 'MOMENT RE ' . MYSELF. Through the sad woodland wails the >vind of Autumn, Driving the leaves like restless souls ; tormented; Taunted and flonted, Summer's flitting i phantoms Drift through the byways. Bars are tho fields that ones were cloth-of-golden, Cheerless tho haunts whero once was joy and- feasting. Why comes the bitter wine, the lees. tho poison. Last in tho banquet? Soul, that bewailest in thy desolation, Why, when the dawns were light and sunsets vision, Whj'. when the grain was rife, didst thou not boar it Into thy garners? Why, when the fruitage glorified thine orchards, Didst thou not store some ripeness for the morrow? Now comes tho dearth, and so thy bnriis aro,ierrfpVv|ol' it<■ >. Oi'm - : - Naked'thy chambers. . —Roy Jackson.