10 JULY 1947, Page 14

ALL SINS AWAY

LITTLE ripples of water Lap and tinkle on the warm shore, Bathing the warm stones, soothing The hot tideway of India. All her burning Langour seems now distilled In this whispering and half-stilled Moment of vanishing twilight.

The sores of the untouchables, the dark infant Malformed, the filth-clotted markets, The sickly flabby wealth of the princes, the rank sweat Of the Eastern flesh-cult ; these And the million unheeded daily brutalities Of India to India, diminish in the quiemess Of this evening moment. The moving waters Lapping under the palm trees, tonight wash all sins away Clear from the western shore of India. PETER BINGHAM.