<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">The Wykhamist</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line"><span class="smallcaps">In</span> the wake of the yellow sunset one pale star</p><p class="line">Hangs over the darkening city's purple haze.</p><p class="line">An errand-boy in the street beneath me plays</p><p class="line">On a penny whistle. Very faint and far</p><p class="line">Comes the scroop of tortured gear on a battered car.</p><p class="line">A hyacinth nods pallid blooms on the window sill,</p><p class="line">Swayed by the tiny wind. St. Catherine's Hill</p><p class="line">Is a place of mystery, a land of dreams.</p><p class="line">The tramp of soldiers, barrack-marching, seems</p><p class="line">A thing remote, untouched by fate or time.</p><p class="line">...A year ago you heard Cathedral's chime,</p><p class="line">You hurried up to books -- a year ago;</p><p class="line">-- Shouted for "Houses" in New Field below.</p><p class="line">...You... "died of wounds"... they told me</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:10%">...yet your feet</p><p class="line">Pass with the others down the twilit street.</p></div><p class="byline">-- Nora Griffiths.</p></body></html> · Great War