POETRY.
LONDON.
FOR me no dark, deserted lane
With muddy footprints, leafless banks, But shops that shine the more for rain, The friendly, flashing window-pane, And watchful cabs in glittering ranks ; Those country lamps burn thick and brown Beside the lights of London Town.
That heavy golden plume, flung high An though to challenge peering stars : The whisk of light where " taxis " fly, And grave Big Ben against the sky : The moving lines of brilliant cars : The great lifts moaning up and down—. All these are ours in London Town.
Like captured moons the pale arcs flare, Flicker a moment, dim, and blaze ; Above each quiet, sombre square Through evening wind, on morning air, The distant drone of traffic strays ; Let other cities smile or frown, Their magic fades by London Town.
No other voice our souls can fret With such desire when memory calls ; The Empire-circle widens, yet Its farthest bounds are swayed and set Here, where the flying message falls, And all that Empire's fair renown Beats in the heart of London Town.
WILFRID L. RA.NDELL,
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