The Parting
The clouds are muttering for rain,
While birds in solid squadrons fly from storm;
The telegraphic wires sadly affirm
The bleakness of a steely spring.
He throws down the evening newspaper,
Changes into ragged slippers, glances
Down at the street where the rain
Like stretched elastic falls in lengthy strings;
And he takes his favourite book from, the top shelf,
Almost at random, so mechanical it is.
This voice speaks softly from a lost summer:
"0 will you say it again ...
Say it all again!
Will you say it then
Ae you say it now?
Will you be true
And can I be sure?
0 will you say it again ..."
Footsteps drop like anonymous parcels.
Deep, deep into the gashed night
A gramophone wheedles a tired melody
From the next-floor apartment:
And he thinks, more desperate than angry:
"I can never say it again,
Never, never say it again.
For the past is past
And cancelled out finally.’*
And yet that other voice maintains
Its level melody,
Its hollow, ruthless, tender, plaintive melody:
"0 will you say it again ...
Say it a11 again!
Will you say it then
As you say it now?
Will you be true?
And can I be sure?
O will you say it again ..."
