6 OCTOBER 1944, Page 11

THE PITY OF IT!

fiohtrrimns I think your hair is brown, at others nearly black ;

One moment liquid-glossy as a new-husked chestnut, The next is turbulent and unconfined.

You, like your hair, are often calm and gracious ;

And yet this stillness is not all of you—

For suddenly you give yourself, too much, Exhilarating in your confidence, Terrifying in your trust.

Nor yet your eyes are constant, save in their loveliness, But change from blue to deepest blue.

So, off some Hebridean shore—black rocks, white sand—

The sea deepens from green and blue translucency To unfathomable- indigo, till, overcast, It withers to a ruffled, grey, white-flecked and chilling, And so your beauty, bewildering in its altering faces, Is yet the same, unchanging: Perfection is an Absolute.

Your husband I find charming, handsome, kind ; Your baby will be lovely, too, I think.

PETER COCHRANE.