14 NOVEMBER 1952, Page 11

Invocation of Winter

Now heavy hangs this month of autumn, dropping Out of untrammelled fingers her late sheaves.

The gilded mask is fallen to the ground.

Come, hooded lapidary, bring your steel Chisel : shape us a new world of stone ; Rivet the leaves, that where they fall they rest ; Solder the mouths of water ; make fast the sky :

So that the small bird, perched on the lip of silence

Launching may shake no whisper from his wings At dawn ; that wheels, hushed in the hearts of cities, Be all the pulse, all the report of sound.

DESMOND HARMSWORTH.