29 MAY 1920, Page 16

POETRY.

BELOW THE ALPS.

OF all small jewels ever wrought of God I think the grasses Beneath these Alpine passes Are fairest to mine eyes, long weary of drought Where the sun sears the south All summer long; Next, the low song And flashing hands-breadth of the water-teat Circling on silvern feet Meadows, of fairies only to be trod, Where, leafless from the sod, Spring stars of amethyst Set where Titania kissed Oberon, as he lay

Sleeping; and then the golden scent of hay

Blowing through apple trees

(For England hides in these—

England whose seal is set Here where mine eyes are wet).

And I give thanks for these small jewels of God.

GILBERT Tuostxit.