Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/226

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse :The old songs Die— And the lips that sang them. Wreaths, withered and dusty, Cuff-buttons with royal insignia, These, in a musty museum, Are all that is left of Sarasate.

The pool that had no bottom? Shadowed by Druids ere the Romans came— Dark, still, with little bubbles rising So quietly level with its rim of stone That one stood shuddering with the breathless fear Of one short step?


 * My little sister stood beside the pool

As dark as that of Nimes. I saw her white face as she took the plunge; I could not follow her, although I tried. The silver bubbles circled to the brink, And then the water parted: With dream-white face my little sister rose Dripping from that dark pool, and took the hands Outstretched to meet her.