ONE DAY.

The trees rustle; the wind blows Merrily out of the town; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down.

In a brown gloom the moats gleam; Slender the sweet wife stands; Her lips are red; her eyes dream; Kisses are warm on her hands.

The child moans; the hours slip Bitterly over her head: In a gray dusk, the tears drip; Mother is up there dead.

The hermit hears the strange bright Murmur of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray.

The laborer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm; The beggar moans; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm.

The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: In his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof.