The Black Swans 



place has grown to be a part of life 

 itself. We have banked the fire and 

 locked the entrance gate and left the 

 old clock standing there alone each 

 fall with ever-deepening regret, be- 

 cause each time has brought the 

 thought that this may be the last. 



We always trust we may come back 

 again to see the hedge-rows and the 

 iris wake, but maybe we shall not. 

 The cricket that until tonight has 

 chirped about the hearth is gone. The 

 frost has sapped all floral life outside. 

 Above the general wreck a drooping 

 salvia only shows its scarlet bloom, 

 but it too, like Omar's Bird of Time, 

 "has but a little way to go." All things 

 come to an end at last, even the most 

 idyllic days in rare sequestered nooks. 

 Conditions change, and circumstances; 

 and we change with them. Turns come 

 at length in every path. 



The spring-time and the summer of 

 our days at Dumbiedykes have passed. 

 That much is sure. The autumn now 

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