The Spike or Victoria College Review 1937
Rain lashed the hunted wind among the flowers—
Great bronzen-gold chrysanthemums and while
Hung on the drifting storm, and lined the path
With shreds of ivory
And little bits of finely beaten bronze.
Rain crackled on the windows, and the light
Was caught and twisted in a thousand streams;
And all night long the wind was clamorous,
Crying and calling like a hunted thing.
And yet—strangely—within your room
There was a quietness that spoke of summer,
The peace of dawn before the birds begin;
And the mad beating of the rain was stilled.
Gold lamplight hung about you,
Your splendid, tawny-bronze chrysanthemums
That somehow matched your hair . . .
Gold light was soft
Upon a little bowl of ivory—
A little heart-shaped bowl, that held
A single spray of blood-red fuchsia . . .
You spoke of many things,
And as you spoke,
The silence deepened round you, till I heard
Your words like pebbles falling in a well.
Only your voice . . . and shadows playing
Furtive, half-laughing, in your quiet eyes. . .
Quietness . . . and the soft gold light upon you—
Outside, the storm had faded far away . . .
And then, quite suddenly, the spell was broken;
Snapped like a taut string quivering with song;
As you laughed mockingly at some old sorrow
That once had been a bond between us both—
Laughed, then turned suddenly and swift away,
Silent once more . . .
But it had gone, Would not return again:
The peace of light and flowers.
The softness of your voice . . . and clamorous
Burst once again the tumult of the storm.