THE GOLDEN DAY.

By Erwin Clarkson Garrett

Have ye a day that bears the glare

Of the flaming morning sun?

Have ye a day the mind may search,

Weighing what ye have done?

Have ye a day ye are satisfied

Will stand the acid test —

From the first gray strand of the eastern skies

To the last red glow in the west?

Have ye a day ye grappled with

And hurled in mortal throes,

When,‘ bove the white horizon,

The Great Occasion rose?

Mayhap the World bore witness

To the things of your Golden Day:

Mayhap it is locked from the gaze of men,

And ye've thrown the key away.