A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 11 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

I have it still, a book with pages sewn
Cross-wise in silk, and brimming with these flowers,
Treasures we gathered there, long sere and brown,
The ghosts of childhood's first undoubting hours,
Of childhood in the mountains ere the powers
Of wrong and pain had turned our joys to gall.
That summer stands to me a tower of towers,
To which my gladness clings in spite of all.
There was one special wonder in the hills,
A place where nets were hung from tree to tree
For flights of pigeons. This beyond all else
Touched my boy's fancy for its mystery,
And for the men who, caged aloft on poles,
Scared down the birds, as Satan scares men's souls.

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