Night tells her rosary of stars full soon, They drop from out her dark hand to her knees. Upon a silhouette of woods, the moon Leans on one horn as if beseeching ease From all her changes which have stirred the seas. Across the ears of Toil, Rest throws her veil. I and a marsh bird only make a wail. EVENING CLOUDS A little flock of clouds go down to rest In some blue corner off the moon's highway, With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array, Perhaps to weave a rainbow's gay festoons Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made A little England full of lovely noons, Or dot it with his country's mountain shade. Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle[22] Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed, What he loved most; for late I roamed a while Thro' English fields and down her rivers sailed; And they remember him with beauty caught From old desires of Oriental Spring Heard in his heart with singing overwrought; And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing. FOOTNOTES: [22] The island of Skyros where Rupert Brooke was buried. (See page 194.) _Irene Rutherford McLeod_ Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891, has written three volumes of direct and often distinguished verse, the best of which may be found in _Songs to Save a Soul_ (1915) and _Before Dawn_ (1918). The latter volume is dedicated to A. de Selincourt, to whom she was married in 1919. "IS LOVE, THEN, SO SIMPLE" Is love, then, so simple my dear? The opening of a door, And seeing all things clear? I did not know before. I had thought it unrest and desire Soaring only to fall, Annihilation and fire: It is not so at all. I feel no desperate will, But I think I understand Many things, as I sit quite still, With Eternity in my hand. LONE DOG I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own; I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep. I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate. Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest! _Richard Aldington_