Well may I tire, that stand alone
And turn a wistful glance
On each remembered tree and stone,
Familiar landmarks of a road
Where once so light of heart I strode
With one who sleeps in France.

Heavily on the stile I lean,
Not as we leant of yore,
To drink the beauty of the scene,
Glory of green and blue and gold,
Shadow and gleam on wood and wold
That he will see no more.

Then came from somewhere far afield
A song of thrush unseen,
And suddenly there stood revealed
(Oh heart so merry, song so true!)
A day when we shall walk, we two,
Where other worlds are green.

* * * * *

THE REVIEWS FOR ----.

_(A specimen article for the use of those editors who have come to the
realisation that the contents of our heavier periodicals never change.
All that is needed is the insertion of the right month and the survey
can be used as a serial.)_