In Sarum Close, when she had said her say, He stood bare-headed where dim vapours lay Heavy on vacant lawn, athwart the stone Of that great pile that stands unsought, alone,— Himself as still and derelict as they. Here, when morn’s gleaming hand had rolled away From the green plot of this their week-old play Her misty curtain, each to each was shown, In Sarum Close. Void the discoloured fane before him lay, Void the dark-sodded precincts,—far away One closed a window, night’s appeal had grown Perchance too urgent, even as his own Had seemed to her whose friendship did with day In Sarum close.
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