ONE DAY.

The trees rustle; the wind blows

Merrily out of the town;

The shadows creep, the sun goes

Steadily over and down.

In a brown gloom the moats gleam;

Slender the sweet wife stands;

Her lips are red; her eyes dream;

Kisses are warm on her hands.

The child moans; the hours slip

Bitterly over her head:

In a gray dusk, the tears drip;

Mother is up there dead.

The hermit hears the strange bright

Murmur of life at play;

In the waste day and the waste night

Times to rebel and to pray.

The laborer toils in gray wise,

Godlike and patient and calm;

The beggar moans; his bleared eyes

Measure the dust in his palm.

The wise man marks the flow and ebb

Hidden and held aloof:

In his deep mind is laid the web,

Shuttles are driving the woof.