the plots of the Night.
Then the bright blossoms of platform and signal that shine
By the iron-paved path of the garden--the lights of the Line;
The gold flowers of comfort and caution; the buds of dull red,
Sombre with warning; the green leaves that say "Right ahead!"

Then the flowers in the harbour that low to the tide of it lean;
The lights on the port and the starboard, the red and the green,
Mixing and mingling with mast lights that move in the air,
And deck lights and wharf lights and lights upon pier-head and stair;
An edging of gold where a liner steals by like a thief;
The giant grey gleam of a searchlight that swings like a leaf;
And far out to seaward faint petals that flutter and fall
Against the white flower of the Lighthouse that gathers them all.

Then flower lights all golden with welcome--the lights of the inn;
And poisonous hell-flowers, lit doorways that beckon to sin;
Soft vesper flowers of the Churches with dark stems above;
Gold flowers of court and of cottage made one flower by love;
Beacons of windows on hillside and cliff to recall
Some wanderer lost for a season--Night's flowers one and all!
In the street, in the lane, on the Line, on the ships and the towers,
In the windows of cottage and palace--all flowers, the Night's flowers!

THE CROSSING SWORDS

As I lay dreaming in the grass
I saw a Knight of Tourney pass--
All conquering Summer. Twilit hours
Made soft light round him, rainbow flowers
Hung on his harness.

Down the dells
The fairy heralds rang blue-bells,
And even as they rocked and rang
Into the lists, full-armed, there sprang
Autumn, his helm the harvest moon,
His sword a sickle, the gleaner's tune
His hymn of battle.

Each bowed full low,
Knight to knight as to worthy foe,
Then Autumn tossed as his gauntlet down--
A leaf of the lime tree, golden brown--
And Summer bound it above the green
Of his shining breast-plate's verdant sheen.

--They closed. Above them the driving mists
Stooped and feathered--and hid the lists.
Later the cloud mist rolled away
But dead in his harness the Green Knight lay.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS

LURES IMMORTAL

Sadly, apparently frustrate, life hangs above us,
Cruel, dark unexplained;
Yet still the immortal through mortal incessantly pierces
With calls, with appeals, and with lures.
Lure of the sinking sun, into undreamed islands,
Fortunate, far in the West;
Lure of the star, with speechless n