19 DECEMBER 1952, Page 10

The Finest of the Arts

When the sterile winter bound his tongue in ice And the snow lay heavy on his tired brain She drew him to the season of her love And slowly, with great patience, gave release.

And in his mouth would sing a sudden april, The ice would break and he would shape the fragments, The snow would melt and cleanse his thoughts like pebbles, And he would write another perfect poem.

For him she built the warm house of her caring, And when he blew it down from time to time She set about rebuilding it, not asking • That he should help, nor blaming him at all. It was not always easy but she did it, And he grew big with praise and reputation ; He did not realise till she left forever The hardest and the greatest art is loving.

VERNON SCANNELL.