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LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE



RYTON FIRS


'The Dream'

All round the knoll, on days of quietest air,
Secrets are being told; and if the trees
Speak out--let them make uproar loud as drums--
'Tis secrets still, shouted instead of whisper'd.

There must have been a warning given once:
No tree, on pain of withering and sawfly,
To reach the slimmest of his snaky toes
Into this mounded sward and rumple it;
All trees stand back: taboo is on this soil.--

The trees have always scrupulously obeyed.
The grass, that elsewhere grows as best it may