Page 18 - 1918 November - To Dragma

36 TO DRAG MA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI 37

THE QUIET CORNER THERE SHALL BE NO NIGHT THERE

Although in recent issues of To D R A G M A the Quiet Corner has No night in Heaven? No dusk or dawn,
given place and space to more practical matters and material, the Nor sunset flaming in the west?
editor is yielding to temptation in this number and is reprinting two
poems which have lately come into her possession. She would like No great moon-shadows on a lawn—
to say again that all such contributions are very, very welcome. A dreaming lawn all dew-possessed?

From earth and flowers no wild, sweet scent
Through darkness like a sacrament?

APRIL ON THE BATTLEFIELDS No lure of dark-enchanted trees?
No song of nightingale, nor call
April now walks the fields again
Trailing her leaves Of owl? No phosphorescent seas
And holding all her bnds against her heart:
Wrapt in her clouds and mists, Nor any little stars at all?
She walks No stealthy stir of shy earth things,
Groping her way. among the graves of men. Nor glow-worm's light, nor moth's dim wings?

At eve no creeping mists to lie

The green of earth is differently green, In furrowed fields? No bats that wheel
A dreadful knowledge trembles in the grass
And little wild-eyed flowers die too soon. Their rhythmic ways against the sky?
There is a stillness here—
After a terror of all raving sounds No hands of sleep to hush and heal:

And birds, limp-winged and silent, sit close for comfort No night in Heaven ? Dear God, what bliss
Upon the boughs of broken Irees.
The light-enveloped angels miss!

TERESA HOOLEY.

April, thou grief!
What of thy sun, and glad high wind,
The valiant hills and woods and eager brooks
The thousand petalled hopes,
The sky forbids thee sorrow, A p r i l !
And yet—

I see thee walking listlessly
Across those scars that once were joyous sod,
Those graves

Those stepping stones from life to life.

Death is an interruption between two heart beats Have you subscribed to the Ambulance Fund?
That I know—
Yet know not how I know— t
But April mourns,

Trailing her tender green,
The passion of her green
Across the passion of those fearful fields.

Yes, all the fields!
No barrier here,
No challenge in the night,
No stranger hand;
She passes with her perfect countersign
Her green:
She wanders in her mournful garden,
Dropping her bnds like tears,
Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of men.

LEONORA SPEYER.