26 NOVEMBER 1954, Page 14

The worshippers of paper heroes sink Into the piling pages

of their books, Wander through haunted gardens of dark ink, Till all the might-have beens, the dashinglooks, Young blue and gold fade into dusty grey, Flowers pressed between the pages of their books.

Books are a drug, you cannot break away,

The world co shadows numbs the floating mind, And worlds of shadows shirk the light of day.

Insolent love can only purge, unbind The dusty heart, the loins, already cold; He mostly comes too late—they wake to find That like Venetian mirrors set in gold They smiled at shadows, and that shadows pass Into the leaf of silver, and unfold