By Marjorie J. Wood Somewhere a fugitive beauty waits The sun will run his yellow nails Beneath the flap of old, gray, stone Fast gardens where the shadows pale And gloom, loosing brightness along The roots of grass. Wind sleeps there still Page 22 And sodden with the weight of sun, Dreaming of cowslips on a sudden hill. Somewhere a fugitive beauty waits In pools of forest-gathered gold Rippled by slowly dropping leaves, Silence a thing made loud and bold By quiet. Here only the sun Takes steps and moves across the brown Of earth and pool. A wind grows targe Upon the pool the water frowns. Somewhere a fugitive beauty waits But they will not see it. There'll be Vast rooms of smoke and talk, neat plates Of cake and clinking cups of tea. Page 23