2 DECEMBER 1911, Page 35

POETRY.

TO SLEEP.

AFTER STATIIIS SYLV., V. 4.

KIND sleep, boy sleep, of all the gods most kind,

What is my crime that of all living things I, I alone, must lack thy solaces ?

The world is still. No stir of beast or bird, Even the weary tree-tops bend in sleep And hungry torrents sound• less terribly, While, all his cruelties forgot, the sea Sleeps on the bosom of the sleeping shore.

Bethink thee, sleep, is there no one who lies Through this long night soft in a maiden's arms, And thrusts thee back and back impatiently ? Leave him, kind sleep, and come. I do not crave The weight of all thy down upon my lids.

Touch me but once with that witch-wand of thine— (It shall suffice) or o'er my aching head Hover one still-winged moment and pass by.

C. T.