_Young lip to young lip does another meet you? Has a lonely traveller, when day was stark and long, Toiling ever slower to the grey road's ending, Reached a sudden summer of sun and flower and song? Has he seen in you the world's one yearning, All the season's message, all the heaven's play? Has he read in you the riddle of our living? Have you to another been the dark's one ray?_ _Well, if one has held you, and, holding you, beheld you Shining down upon him like a single star; If Love to Love leans, even as the June sky, Laughing down to earth, leans strangely close and far; Has he seen the moonlight mirrored in the bloomy, Softly-breathing gloom of your dear dark hair; And seeing it, has worshipped, and cried again for heaven? Then am I joyful for a fire-kissed prayer!_ A LONELY NIGHT KINGSLAND ROAD Kingsland Road is one of the few districts of London of which I can say, definitely, that I loathe it. I hate to say this about any part of London, but Kingsland Road is Memories ... nothing sentimental, but Memories of hardship, the bitterest of Memories. It is a bleak patch in my life; even now the sight of its yellow-starred length, as cruelly straight as a sword, sends a shudder of chill foreboding down my back. It is, like Barnsbury, one of the lost places of London, and I have met many people who do not believe in it. "Oh yes," they say, "I knew that 'buses went there; but I never knew there really was such a place." Many miles I have tramped and retramped on its pavements, filled with a brooding bitterness which is no part of seventeen. Those were the days of my youth, and, looking back, I realize that something, indeed, a great deal, was missing. Youth, of course, in the abstract, is regarded as a kingship, a time of dreams, potentialities, with new things waiting for discovery at every corner. Poets talk of it as some kind of magic, something that knows no barriers, that whistles through the world's dull streets a charmed tune that sets lame limbs pulsing afresh. Nothing of the kind. Its only claim is that it is the starting-point. Only once do we make a friend--our first. Only once do we succeed--and that is when we take our first prize at school. All others are but empty echoes of tunes that only once were played.