22 AUGUST 1952, Page 12

The Poet

Each instant of his life a task, he never rests, And works most when he appears to be doing nothing.

The least of it is putting down in words What usually remains unwritten and unspoken, And would so often be much better left Unsaid, for it is wally the unspeakable That he must try to give an ordinary tongue to.

And if, by art and accident, He utters the unutterahle, then It must appear as natural as breath, Yet be an inspiration. And he must go, The lonelier for his unwanted miracle, His singular way, a gentle lunatic at large In the societies of cross and reasonable men.

JAMES KIRKUP.