A Perfect Day
BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue;
No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;
A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,
From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.
A vagueness in the undulant hill line,
The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;
Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,
And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.
A sense of gracious calm afar and near,
And yet a something wanting,—one fine ray
For consummation. Love, were you but here,
Then were the day indeed a perfect day.
Clinton Scollard.