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The Spike Golden Jubilee Number May 1949

III — Interior



Two candles lit a gleaming autumn room.
Remnants of coffee-cups, and a tall bright jug,
The silver candlesticks, lent to the gloom
The light of resting apples, the finely spun
Glimmer of cool stored wine. Out in the day
Rain fell, and branches, while the low sky pressed
These and the room to the near anonymous clay
Where all is quietness and told in hushed
Bright whispers. There as the smoke disturbed
The glossy ceiling, we were like gnomes who drank
A wine of silence, underneath a hill. To speak
The lovely words, the weighty ponderous words
Echoed but the timely earth, and stepped
Past sorrow to the delicate ways of death.

W. H. Oliver