MOCKERY

God, I return to you on April days

When along country-roads you walk with me;

And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree

That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays.

My faith revives when, through a rosy haze,

The clover-sprinkled hills smile quietly;

Young winds uplift a bird's clean ecstacy...

For this, oh God, my joyousness and praise.

But now — the crowded streets and choking airs,

The huddled thousands bruised and tossed about —

These, or the over-brilliant thoroughfares,

The too-loud laughter and the empty shout;

The mirth-mad city, tragic with its cares...

For this, oh God, my silence — and my doubt.