SUNDAY

How beautiful is the world's delight,

How trivial, yet as sweet as a passing dream

That makes the harassed sleeper in the night

Smile, and on waking sigh. Forever the stream

Of time moves onward; as in coloured boats

A thousand souls go sailing,

And stilly down the tide my spirit floats

Singing or wailing

To the tune the waters make. Here we forget a space

The crawling sins of man that sting and gloat,

The pain and fear that haggers every face,

But vaguely and remote

The strident trumpet and the clamorous voices sound —

Grief doth forget to curse her Gods or pray,

While pagan follies squander all around

Their 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 pass

Like bubbles on the tide, like coloured ships

Sailing on glass!