Around and round the lighted wick he flew,
Winging his wonderful and curious flight;
And near, and still more near, the circles grew....
And then—the flame no more was bright for him.
Then all my heart went out in sudden pity
To that small martyr, who had sought for light,
And found—his death. O he was fair to die.
I rose and snuffed the candle with a sigh.
Betty Bray, September 26, 1920. Aged 14 years.
These fresh, clear, spontaneous verses have a special value. They bring us a promise of Spring—the message that we may still hope for a revival of English Poetry.