In the wake of the yellow sunset one pale star
Hangs over the darkening city's purple haze.
An errand-boy in the street beneath me plays
On a penny whistle. Very faint and far
Comes the scroop of tortured gear on a battered car.
A hyacinth nods pallid blooms on the window sill,
Swayed by the tiny wind. St. Catherine's Hill
Is a place of mystery, a land of dreams.
The tramp of soldiers, barrack-marching, seems
A thing remote, untouched by fate or time.
...A year ago you heard Cathedral's chime,
You hurried up to books -- a year ago;
-- Shouted for "Houses" in New Field below.
...You... "died of wounds"... they told me
...yet your feet
Pass with the others down the twilit street.
-- Nora Griffiths.
