26 JULY 1946, Page 9

CONDUC TOR

THE pale mystery of hands, these divided moons

Drawing to them the tides of sound, gathering this rising gold sea Of light-glittering strings and the cool blue waves of Clarinet and oboe, the white foam of flutes, and The ice-green harp, singing alone, as a Seal-woman In a wide bay, against an ocean tempest of music ; Sighing, in the remote Hebrides,. for stranger seas, For a lost country, Cir-nan-Og, the Land-Under-Waves.

E. ISOBEL CUMMING.