The Feather
A man and woman walking
Up the rye hill
Had no breath for talking.
The evening was still;
Only the wind in the rough grass
Made a papery patter;
Like yesterday it was,
Too spent a sigh to matter.
Down fell a curlew’s feather
As they went on their way
(Who walked kindly together
And had nothing to say).
So light, so soft, so strange,
To have settled on her heart.
It was the breath of change,
That breathed them apart.
