IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



'Solitary ones have departed in the night 

 — so silently that the empty chair at break- 

 fast first tells us of their absence. 

 'Close up the ranks! Shorten the table! 



A glass for the dead already, 

 And hurrah for the next that dies! 



'The break-up is here, summer is over. 



'And so comes the day when the house 

 that has known so many care-free hours 

 must be deserted. For the last time your 

 footstep sounds in the darkened place. The 

 very door-handles seem loth to leave your 

 grasp; the chairs extend their arms for an 

 uncouth good-bye. You shut and bar the 

 door through which the breeze has wan- 

 dered at will all the long summer days. 

 The clang hurts like an unkindness done to 

 a creature suffering mutely, helplessly, at 

 your hands. 



'For surely these familiar walls have in 

 them some sentiency — else how could they 

 look such melancholy farewells. . . 



'In the white desolateness of winter will 

 not imprisoned echoes of laughter and 

 music come forth — the very ghosts of 

 sounds. 



'From the eaves the rain drips heavily, 

 the cedars are clothed in mist. 



74 



1 



