26 AUGUST 1949, Page 13

THE ARCHAEOLOGIST

You stir the dust to catch the gleam of gold, And softly the dust settles on your lashes. In blackened walls and shards the story's told, Whether it's then or now is no great matter. Follow the curve, the peak, and the decline— This is a bead of stone, and that of metal— Batter you may, but still no gods incline, One cycle found, to think of something better. Take off your earthy hands ; the secret dead Hide in their broken ribs no alchemy ; You yourself follow on where they have led ; Fore-ordained ruins were their palaces.

LALAGE PULVER!'