Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box,

Over the hedge you'll see him sail.

Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.

Poet, never chase the dream.

Laugh yourself, and turn away.
Mask your hunger; let it seem

Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED?

Look at my knees,

That island rising from the steamy seas!
The candle's a tall lightship; my two hands
Are boats and barges anchored to the sands,
With mighty cliffs all round;

They're full of wine and riches from far lands.
I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?

I can make caves,

By lifting up the island and huge waves

And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder,

A bull-of-Bashan sound.

The seas run high and the boats split asunder
I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?

The thin soap slips

And slithers like a shark under the ships.

My toes are on the soap-dish-that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. The soap slides round and round;

He's biting the old sailors, I expect.

I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?

THE LAST POST

The bugler sent a call of high romance—

'Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:

God, if it's this for me next time in France,

O spare the phantom bugle as I lie

Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with other broken ones,
Lying so stiff and still under the sky-
Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die
The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
Was blood about his head as he stood there.

INDEX

Names of Authors are in Capitals. Titles of Poems are in Italics.

ABERCROMBIE, LASCELLES, Xxiv,