7 FEBRUARY 1931, Page 12

The Use of it All

THE QUESTION

WHAT is the use of it all,

This chaos called life ?

These age-old years, these age-old tears,

This blind desire and strife ?

This desperate striving to forget ourselves,

This aching to be free, Is it a dance, or a game of chance, Or just insatiability ?

What is the use of it all, These lips, these flowers ?

These dew-dimmed eyes, these star-kissed skies, This wine, these music-mad hours ?

Flowers die, hearts bleed, and eyelids close, The birds still sing !

Over lost dreams the white moon gleams, And Summer and Autumn must follow the Spring 1 What is the use of it all, This cycle of days and nights, This crying in pain, this seeking in vain, This endless whirl of lights ?

THE ANSWER This is the use of it all, This suffering of thine, This endless desire, this cleansing through fire, This cleaving fight with time ; This desperate striving to find thyself, This fever to be free, In spite of the wine, this thirsting of thine, Thy soul's insatiability : This is the use of it all, Thy spirit's strife, Thy human tears that burn through the years And wash out the sorrows of life : With hungry hands, and haunted eyes, And dreams that are gone, Thy sinking in pain, to rise up again, . Pure as the dream-white flowers of dawn ; When starved in the mire thy heart Shall awaken to'call, Out of thy cries beauty shall rise : This is the use of it all.

MUMTAZ JAIIAN SHAH NAWAZ. London, October-November, 1930.

[Miss Shah Nawaz, the young granddaughter of Sir Muh- ammad Shafi, wrote this poem this winter when she was in England for the first time with her parents who were delegates to the Conference.—Ed. Spectator."]