5 AUGUST 1911, Page 18

POETRY.

THE FEAST.

Fly low swallows, Hills grow clear, All the little leaves know Someone's near.

All along the hedgerow, Hark, and you shall her Little cups and saucers Clinking, clinking, Little cups and saucers far un4 near.

Gathered round the tables, Each small guest Whispers He is close now, Coming from the west, Whispers He is close now, Coming from the east.

Hark, and you shall hear them Stealing, stealing, Heralds of the Giver of the Feast.

Grows a little cloud now, Man's hand high, Not a voice is heard now, Bent each eye.

Never was so mouse-still

Earth, air, Sky,

Waiting for the Great One, Great One, Great One,

Waiting for the Great 'One to come iy.

One drop, two drops, Ah, how we pray, Pass us not, 0 Great One, Great One, stay.

Hush, ah—shout then Hand, heart, brain, All our little cups full, Caps full, laps full, All our little tables, Miles of little tables, Drumming with the rapture of the Rain.

18 Downshire Hill, Hampstead. H. H. BAMFORD.