Days
I am a Day . . .
My sky is grey,
My wind is wild,
My sea high—piled:
In year of days the first
In misery . . .
Oh pity me!
I am a Day
Accurst.
“Sweet Day, not curst but blest:
Behold upon my breast
My baby born
Your early morn.
Safe in my arms alway . . .
Oh precious Day,
let tempest be,
You are to me
In heart of mine
Divine.”
* * * * * * *
I am a Day . . .
From dawn’s pure ray
Like to a peerless gem
In summer’s diadem,
My sky so softly dreams,
my breeze is bland:
My sea is blue and creams
Upon the sand,
Behold! Of days the Queen
I reign serene.
“Oh Day, not blest but curst!
Let savage storm—rack burst,
i will not care . . .
For Lo! I bear
My baby’s coffin to the height.
Ah! Would it were the foulest night
To match my mood’s
Ingratitude.
I cannot not pray . . .
Go your fell way,
Accursed Day!”
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