13 MARCH 1964, Page 20

The Snow Queen

See the rose die, Its heart shrivelled, its petals sallow; Salute as the Snow Queen rides by.

Count yourself lucky she does not love you.

No one can love the Snow Queen.

Her house is guarded by men who have tried, All dead now, elegantly frozen, Their blood congealed, their lusts all petrified.

Nothing can warm them, The marrow is bard in their bones. They pose like a universal theorem, Pointing the truth in all directions.

Chauffeur-driven and swathed in fur, The Snow Queen still feels the cold; By day it nips like cancer, Nightly it tells her she is growing old.

Pity the Snow Queen,

Say prayers, if you can, for the poor lady; Bolt the door, though, and watch your garden. See the rose die.

PHILIP OAKES