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 ecstasy . . .
For this, O God, my joyousness and praise!
But now—the crowded streets and choking airs,
The squalid people, 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, O God, my silence—and my doubt.
