POETRY.
THE DAY.
WONDERFUL, silent, doth it rise,— A white fact casting off red dreams,— With clear, unfathomable eyes Where time, unconquered, gleams..
Fools, lacking time to love or pray, Against the body of its hours Press hurriedly, nor ever stay To question of its powers.
"This haul thou done," it writes, "and this ?
And these shall prove that we have met
And still we mould, and mar, and miss,
And think we shall forget.
We wake, nor think immortal youth From darkness evermore is drawn In this sweet, awful shape of truth That comes with every dawn.
We babble of eternal things, And, lo! Eternity is here, Inscribing God's imaginings Upon the gradual year.
Morn after morn unveils its face, Where on our path of life it stands, Heaven and Hell, grey doom and grace, Within its open hands.
And when we pass the bounds of time, In fear or rapture we shall say, In that unhoured, supernal clime : "This was, this is, our Day !"
MAY DONEE
(Author of "Songs of the Real").
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