The Noons of Splendour

The twenty-fourth of August and no sun,

Clouds veil her face, the skies of pewter made,

Expectantly the earth in stillness lies

And birds wait silently in the deep shade.

A light not wholly real pervades the land

It seems the trick of an illusionist

Or a secret energy content to work

In the dense and palpable morning mist,

A settled atmosphere of deep reserve.

The Spring of happy days is now behind

And Summer's riot captivates the sense.

Earth's final flowering is to my mind

The preface of regenerative sleep.

Autumn's colours lead to Winter's rule

And all our Springs are born from that white peace,

The fallen leaf is but the blossom's fuel.

For man there is neither rest nor journey's end

His greatness is assured, he cannot fall

Though his past a stone that weighs the future down

Bright are his dawns and the noons of splendour call.