7 FEBRUARY 1947, Page 11

AFTER A DEATH

Now winter-colourless my days go, With the undazzled evenness of snow That hides the lilting rose-tree and the laughing house, Whose minstrel roofs were hung with wild green boughs That crowned the singing head, the sleeping lover. Silence now as of snow. Those hours are over.

My days make no shadow ; they are a white Nothing. They are naked as the snow's light.

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Today those bodies turn to fire or snow. Unblest as widowed trees our days will go ; Waiting, until slow time may curve again, Touching our glassy boughs, stinging our roots with rain.

ISOBEL CUMMING.