A FAREWELL SONNET 



(to our next-door neighbours.) 



Till you are gone, and your small cloud of smoke 



Grows pale and paler while our eyes pursue, 



Till the horizon blots you all in blue, 



We shall not know how bitter is the stroke 



Of parting. For the threadbare Spartan cloak 



Muffles from touch as well as veils from view, 



Slight wounds alike, and such as through and through 



Would rip us were we armour-plated oak. 



A weary sense of loss to eye and ear. 



And all the doors and windows of the mind ; 



A silence of familiar voices kind 



That heralded familiar faces dear. 



So dull dim distance closes cold and blind 



Between us and who knows what hope or fear. 



G. J. C. 



{Written with the first ink out of the bequeathed bottle.) 



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