WwW. Vz.

Picture the pigeons tumbling in bright air !
Fancy the jet-eyed squirrel on the

bough !
Leave the poor birches in your London
square ;
The spring and we await you here, and
now.

Beneath our.old world thatch your pulse
shall beat
To the large-leisured rhythm of wood-
land ease ;
No feverish hurry haunts our otiose
trees ;
Your slumber shall be sweet.

The little brown bird’s nest,

The four blue eggs beneath the patient
breast,

The lambkin’s baby face,

The joy of liquid air

And azure space —

Are these not better than your dingy
square,

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