The Parting
The hills shouldered the faint stars from the sky
As we, descending, on the steep road went.
The wind thrilled in the grass with a lone cry,
And our last hour was spent.

Empty and bleak around us was the night,
The sea spread out, a dark, illimitable plain,
And on the shore the surf tossed flames of white
That broke and sank again.

The sunny hill-top where we talked alone,
Golden and scented with the late blown broom,
Seemed like a place imagined, but not known,
In this estranging gloom.

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For the blue glory of the autumn day,
The honey-coloured sunlight of our hill,
Had faded wanly into dun and grey,
And then the dark, and this invading chill.

And all the sunless unconsoling shade
Like a cold tide into our two hearts flowed;
A desolate dumbness on our lips was laid
In that last hour as we went down the road.

Columbine's House
There's a small house in a garden green and small,
A jonquil garden, the warm haunt of bees,
And by the door two old camellia trees
Grow stiff and stately, fair and trim and tall.

They always bloom too early, and spring showers
Tarnish and rob them as the cold gusts pass,
Scattering like white rosettes upon the grass
The lovely, formal, scentless, waxen flowers.

But O! on moonlight nights, when they are drawn
In shining, flower-decked shapes against the sky,
When the white billowy clouds of spring drift by,
And lovely mystery wraps the little lawn,

They take my heart with loveliness, they look
Like trees in some old magic woods, or more
Like guardians set by an enchanted door,
Or decorations from an ancient book.

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With such sweet art the empty stage is set,
One half-expects light music to begin,
While Columbine, a dainty marionette,
Opens the door and beckons Harlequin.

Alice A. Kenny.