��THE ^^TKIT A:\risT
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 b>' 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.
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