10 JUNE 1943, Page 8

MINERVA WATERSTONE A PATRiCIAN, but rebel ; a mellowing Amazon,

A virgin who long has lived to herself alone, Sleeps in the garden Minerva Waterstone.

Fiercely her June flowers blaze ; but her world is bees. She has lulled them asleep with her noontide homilies, 0 so she deems, as the leaf work lattices Fleck her strong face, and hives on populous hives Murmur and mingle with blurring rose of chives Along the stream where her dream of honey driires- But many an hour ago they swarmed, and cling Ling-brown as her hair with its golden glimmering; Dry-clustered as grapes they delicately swing As in a dream from a magical plumtree-bough, That ever about to break remains somehow Unbroken, as charmed as the sleeping virgin's vow.

And not till twilight, when ghost-white campanulas Tower and sway above dimmed azaleas, Will she wake and show us the woman she is and was.

Then will she grasp with a cry the skep she set For action, her helm, her gladiatorial net, And fearlessly stride to meet, as she always met All challenge to her control. Then tone by tone The garden will richen to grandeurs not its own, And become a person—Minerva Waterstone.

GEOFFREY JOHNSON.