The Transit of Joy
For in that hour, for on that day The Universe shall burn like hay, As Sibyl and St. David say. -
In the golden city Every man moved his body With a simplicity Cheerful to see.
They recited the four blessings On lions and footless things.
They spent many hours In gardens and bowers, Each to his neighbours Proclaiming that sunflowers Are so adorable Life is a miracle.
The king took up a spade To dig the rose-bed : The labourers were clad In smocks of yellow thread : The air was bright with their glances : Lovely their countenances.
A saint who many a year on every night Had held the devil in the hottest fight And now, victorious after prayer and grief, Professed the apocalypse of true belief Caine to the city on a market day : His eyes were brown, his body China clay. With clear articulation and firm speech He cried : " Devoted sinners, hear me preach."
Worshippers of earthly things Who seek for transitory joy, Remember now the King of Kings ; He who created will destroy.
Builders upon shifting sand Whose hearts are volatile as breath, Can you disable or withstand The minatory power of death ?
For in that hour, for on that day, The Universe shall burn like hay, As Sibyl and St. David say."
Not being versed in argument They killed the herald heaven had sent, Taking the trouble to invent An instrument, A golden mechanical hammer, such In size, he could not suffer much.
But warned by heaven, Hours before, He had deposited a pamphlet under every door.
ALAN PORTER.
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