Poems (Tree)/Sunday
SUNDAY
HOW beautiful is the world's delight,How trivial, yet as sweet as a passing dreamThat makes the harassed sleeper in the nightSmile, and on waking sigh. Forever the streamOf time moves onward; as in coloured boatsA thousand souls go sailing,And stilly down the tide my spirit floatsSinging or wailingTo the tune the waters make. Here we forget a spaceThe crawling sins of man that sting and gloat,The pain and fear that haggers every face,But vaguely and remoteThe strident trumpet and the clamorous voices sound—Grief doth forget to curse her Gods or pray,While pagan follies squander all aroundTheir brief gay hours in holiday;For all prayers die when laughter is on the lips.—How frail the moods of joy, how sweet to see them passLike bubbles on the tide, like coloured shipsSailing on glass!
1918