22 DECEMBER 1944, Page 11

DEFECTS OF LONELINESS

From my domestic prison I may range

As Fancy leads. I watch the curdling sea That rims a foreign shore, or pluck the strange

Persimmon from its boughs of ebony.

The moon that shines on dome and piercing spire Casts there for me her pale enchanted beam. Imperilled forest cleft by driving fire, Lustreless rock, spurred ice, no barriers seem. Yet, though with longing I may turn my eyes To you in one small battle-ravaged place, I cannot see, and bitter tears arise To blur the image of your well-loved face.

EDITH HAMEY.