THIS INTERVAL

Between the richer weeks
Of tender-shooted youth,
There comes a time of doubt,
When, caught by retrospect
Midway from star to star,
The last-known awe-filled peak
Has slipped too far behind,
While that to be is blended
Into blank futurity.

These are days and hours
Apart, when even violets
Scattered over fringed moss
Are given but a glance,
A touch of pity and remembrance,
And buried there, beneath
A burdened, much-bewildered heart.

			Lucille Hamilton