THE wind, when comes late afternoon, Sweeps up from vespers bells the croon Of shadowed sanctity and soon Bids it forget its prayer. It carries it beyond the town, Beyond the Mission and the frown Of deep-niched figures that look down On joys they may not share, And yonder, where the ranges keep Eternal tryst with sky and sleep, It calls no longer men to weep Their sins and kneel to pray, But turns into a mazy thing, A pagan and a lazy thing, A catch to make a Trappist sing, And harry nymphs all day, A lilting sort of bacchanal, Most irreligious, passional, With choruses antiphonal Of river, wind, and tree, And thus it babbles in the ferns Until at dawn the wind returns, And sweeps it up again and learns How ribald it can be. So just as matins breaks the hush Near five o'clock and with the thrush Stir folk abroad with tuneful rush Of neatly mingled chimes, All fresh with dew and valley loam, The truant vesper-call flits home, But Mary knows 'twould rather roam Than pray a thousand times. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DON JUAN IN HELL by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT by CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY BROOKS THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: NOVEMBER by EDMUND SPENSER THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION: BOOK 2 by MARK AKENSIDE THE PEACE: TO HEAVEN ON A BEETLE by ARISTOPHANES SONG: 4 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |