10 JANUARY 1947, Page 10

WHEN THE ROOT OF JOY . .

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When the root of joy is gone And the lover left alone What, then. is there left to do? All the tended senses dead, Colour, touch and music taken ; The very sunrise turned to blood And the stars to dust of heaven. To do is all that there is left, There is nothing left to do.

JACQUETrA HAWKES.