Page 17 Advertisements Column 4

Press, Volume LXX, Issue 21354, 22 December 1934, Page 17

The fine closing sonnet in Mrs Edna St. Vincent Millay's new book of verse, "Wine from These Grapes": Here lies, and none to mourn him but the sea, That falls incessant on the empty shore. Most various Man, cut down to spring no more; Before his prime, even in his infancy Cut down, and all the clamour that was he. Silenced; and all the riveted pride he wore, A rusted iron column whose tall core The rains have tunnelled like an aspen tree. Man, doughty Man, what powers have brought you low, That heaven itself in arms could not persuade To lay aside the lever and the spade And be as dust among the dusts that blow? Whence, whence the broadside? Whose the heavy blade? Strive not to speak, poor scattered mouth; I know.

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