25 MARCH 1899, Page 15

THE world, that had be g un to stir And g litter, lies

a-cold; The ledge is lined with frosty far, The mimic drift is rolled.

My thrash, full-fed with innocent meat, That had begun to sing So strenuous-slow, so careful-sweet, Sits silent, wondering.

My heart, that had began to bud And blossom, lies a-cold;

The merry impulse of the blood In sullen tide is rolled.

A little thing, a bitter thing

From bleakest storm-clouds hurled !—

My God, lead on Thy gracious spring

In heart, and home, and world !

A. C. BENSON.