JAMES ELROY FLECKER _The Buzzards_ When evening came and the warm glow grew deeper, And every tree that bordered the green meadows And in the yellow cornfields every reaper And every corn-shock stood above their shadows Flung eastward from their feet in longer measure, Serenely far there swam in the sunny height A buzzard and his mate who took their pleasure Swirling and poising idly in golden light. On great pied motionless moth-wings borne along, So effortless and so strong, Cutting each other's paths together they glided, Then wheeled asunder till they soared divided Two valleys' width (as though it were delight To part like this, being sure they could unite So swiftly in their empty, free dominion), Curved headlong downward, towered up the sunny steep, Then, with a sudden lift of the one great pinion, Swung proudly to a curve, and from its height Took half a mile of sunlight in one long sweep. And we, so small on the swift immense hillside, Stood tranced, until our souls arose uplifted On those far-sweeping, wide, Strong curves of flight--swayed up and hugely drifted, Were washed, made strong and beautiful in the tide Of sun-bathed air. But far beneath, beholden Through shining deeps of air, the fields were golden And rosy burned the heather where cornfields ended. And still those buzzards wheeled, while light withdrew Out of the vales and to surging slopes ascended, Till the loftiest-flaming summit died to blue. MARTIN ARMSTRONG _The Moon_ _(To Maurice Baring)_ 1 I waited for a miracle to-night. Dim was the earth beneath a star-swept sky, Her boughs were vague in that phantasmal light, Her current rippled past invisibly. No stir was in the dark and windless meadows, Only the water, whispering in the shadows, That darkened nature lived did still proclaim. An hour I stood in that defeat of sight, Waiting, and then a sudden silver flame Burned in the eastern heaven, and she came. 2 The Moon, the Summer Moon, surveys the vale: The boughs against the dawning sky grow black, The shades that hid those whispering waters fail, And now there falls a gleaming, lengthening track That lies across the wide and tranquil river, Burnished and flat, not shaken by a quiver. She rises still: the liquid light she spills Makes everywhere quick sparkles, patches pale; And, as she goes, I know her glory fills The air of all our English lakes and hills. 3