7 MARCH 1941, Page 11

DAYS OF WAITING

THESE are the days of waiting, when

Crocus and aconite shoot their bud; In the bare gardens the birds are brave, The spring sings early in their blood: And in the veins of the elderly Ladies and petulant nurse-maids Pushing perambulators down The willow-walk into the meads.

The familiar trees are still and wait For the sap to rise along their veins, Put forth their bravery of leaves And clothe with colour the English lanes.

So the turning world moves on, Trees and meadows, river in flood,

Into the spring and the unknown,—

And over all the threat of blood.

A. L. ROWSE.