12 FEBRUARY 1965, Page 20

Lament for a Maker

This man you see hunched up, blinks at his task, Tobacco smarts his eyes, has to smoke, Else he'd not work, hunched up at his desk.

Sometimes he breaks off work, ambles to talk, Puffs at his pipe, listens to staff-room chat, Looks at the Statesman, ambles back to work.

No use to tell him that his hair grows white, Eyes misty, forehead shrivelled, no Use to tell him anything. He knows that.

So he resumes, card-indexes, to show That he has found what busy others missed, But they're too busy showing what they know.

And so they track down references with zest, Annotate the rose, not see it blow,