The World was Dead.

The world was dead; It rolled, a cold, black sphere, in icy space. Through which the gleaming stars their blue light shed In silent mockery at its blind, wild race.

Gone was its splendour; Nor more the sun danced free o'er foam-white waves, Waked purple hills with golden fingers tender, Or brought a fleeting joy to pallid slaves Bowed down beneath the terror of the night. It only lit a barren, rocky ball. That spun, beneath its silent pall, Along its untraced path without respite.

But not alone For even in this hour of death, When, low, amidst the dust of temples, moan Ruin's pale daughters, with fast-dying breath, The moon, no more in silver radiance dressed, But dark and sombre-clad, appears To circle round like lonely bird on plundered nest, And tireless travels down the years.

R.H.P.

Rondeau of Despair.

Full well we know that sorrow and despair Lie hidden in the meshes of your hair; How for a while your passionate breathings play About our souls before you turn away With headless eyes, and heart which cannot care Or feel for all the bitterness we wear As down the weary way of years we fare. How little will avail all words we say Full well we know. Your heavy hair enfolds us and we tear Our souls within its web and lay them bare Beneath your smile which rends but will not slay. For grief is all our guerdon, and dismay And anguish wait for all who find you fair Full well we know.

L.H.

Mirage.

The sea and the sky like a sapphire .... afar float dim, moon-horned towers .... White foam-threads gleam below.

R.H.P.

BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 MIST, Henry Masterman Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916