AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914

By John Presland

The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone

From the quiet trees in the Park;

From the houses the open windows yellowly shine,

The streets are softly dark;

Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand,

Each angle sharply lined,

And the mass of the Institute rises, tower and dome,

Black on the sky behind;

Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone,

Dark, it yet holds the light

In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled

By the creeping shadow of night;

And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth

A faint star throbs and beats —

And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war,

Below, in the quiet street.