Soon to come--larger, life-fraught:
Yes; such it was.

"Nought" it was called,
Even by ourselves--that which springs
Out of the years for all flesh, first or last,
Commonplace, scrawled
Dully on days that go past.
Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings
Even in hours overcast:
Aye, though this best thing of things,
"Nought" it was called!

What seems it now?
Lost: such beginning was all;
Nothing came after: romance straight forsook
Quickly somehow
Life when we sped from our nook,
Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .
--A preface without any book,
A trumpet uplipped, but no call;
That seems it now.



BY HENSTRIDGE CROSS AT THE YEAR'S END



(From this centuries-old cross-road the highway leads east to London,