A PROCESSION OF DEAD DAYS

I see the ghost of a perished day;

I know his face, and the feel of his dawn:

‘ Twas he who took me far away

To a spot strange and gray:

Look at me, Day, and then pass on,

But come again: yes, come anon!

Enters another into view;

His features are not cold or white,

But rosy as a vein seen through:

Too soon he smiles adieu.

Adieu, O ghost-day of delight;

But come and grace my dying sight.

Enters the day that brought the kiss:

He brought it in his foggy hand

To where the mumbling river is,

And the high clematis;

It lent new colour to the land,

And all the boy within me manned.

Ah, this one. Yes, I know his name,

He is the day that wrought a shine

Even on a precinct common and tame,

As‘ twere of purposed aim.

He shows him as a rainbow sign

Of promise made to me and mine.

The next stands forth in his morning clothes,

And yet, despite their misty blue,

They mark no sombre custom-growths

That joyous living loathes,

But a meteor act, that left in its queue

A train of sparks my lifetime through.

I almost tremble at his nod -

This next in train — who looks at me

As I were slave, and he were god

Wielding an iron rod.

I close my eyes; yet still is he

In front there, looking mastery.

In the similitude of a nurse

The phantom of the next one comes:

I did not know what better or worse

Chancings might bless or curse

When his original glossed the thrums

Of ivy, bringing that which numbs.

Yes; trees were turning in their sleep

Upon their windy pillows of gray

When he stole in. Silent his creep

On the grassed eastern steep...

I shall not soon forget that day,

And what his third hour took away!