14 JANUARY 1944, Page 9


IN this warm house of words

Filled with familiar curtains, tables, chairs And mirrors that resume And delicately distort the well-known room, Did you, not see him linger Between the window and the fireplace there, The august spirit that raised a beckoning finger And faded into air? • The simple eye Scanning the river-pooi discerns Ravelled root of pinetree, waterweed Waving weak arms like a dancer wearied-out, And over the pebbled pavement a slim trout Poised in motionless speed.

But the more vigilant eye sees semblances Of things not dwelling in the water-world- Phantoms of floating cloud, the ghostly swinging Of an air-tossgd bough above,

And meteorlike through branch and cloud

The brief bright apparition of a dove Over the face of the water winging.