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DAY was a full-blown flower in heaven, alive With murmuring joy of bees and birds aswarm, When in the skies of song yet flushed and warm With music where all passion seems to strive For utterance, all things bright and fierce to drive Struggling along the splendour of the storm, Day for an hour put off his fiery form, And golden murmurs from a golden hive Across the strong bright summer wind were heard, And laughter soft as smiles from girls at play And loud from lips of boys brow-bound with May. Our mightiest age let fall its gentlest word, When Song, in semblance of a sweet small bird, Lit fluttering on the light swift hand of Day. |