20 SEPTEMBER 1935, Page 20

The Blind Scholar

THESE, eyelids, growing old,

Need props. But there are none. I was mad, when young, To barter muscle for knowledge, Even this small tissue of the eye. For darkness surely is death, And knoWledge is not sure.

O to be a fool treading the field,

Staring half-witted to the numbered sky. I'd give my mathematics for that moment, And shed my grammar like a garment To gain his eyes once more.

RICHARD Council.