30 JANUARY 1909, Page 32
POETRY.
TO A GIRL.
ALL ghouls and ghosts shall Science lay P Not ours I Time is our Spectre-King. By bog and boulder He drives his bleating flock, once rosy hours, And still he shuffles on, and we wax older.
* * * * * * Alison, near those freshets of your smiles Bloom gold-winged Iris, meadow-sweet like foam And pansies shy amid the Enchanted Isles Where no ghost walks, no rueful phantoms roam.
A White Bird flutes beside that singing river :
Hark to its notes I Be glad, be brave, obey them! The gay hearts and the true are fair for ever ;
Their ghosts turn flowers ; like angels they array them.
NEWMAN HOWARD.