The day has come.
I look around,
But what I seek
Cannot be found,
Not in the air
Or underground.
(I’d search the sea,
But I would drown.)
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Now, as my coffee swiftly drains away,
I ready me to face another day
Of work. These weeks, I have no time to play,
No time to smell those flowers I pass by,
Though they are fragrant as they grow up high
From roadsides. I still have not found out why
They burgeon there, but I don’t need to know
To find in them delight, nor they to grow
Demand I see or smell them. I must go
About those tasks for which I am yet paid,
Must not in them let myself be delayed;
Failure’s consequences are not stayed
Because I stayed and smelled to my delight
Those growing glories under mornings’ light.
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The day of false delight has passed us by,
And though some mark it, fewer still know why
On that day of all days it’s less awry
To turn towards cruel and often harmful pranks
Than other days. I ought to offer thanks
That on one day, we are not held as cranks
Who look askance on things put forth with glee,
Who see sharp smiles and think to from them flee.
That wind has now blown out, and from its lee
We must creep out and face a world unkind
That, thinking we have put out of our minds
Its japes, still waits to us unwary find.
I will my vigil keep, despite the day;
I will thus hope ill will not me waylay.
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Now April once again with showers sweet
Has risen from her bed, and poets meet
Her rising with their verses, seek to heat
The chilly ling’ring winter’s grasp away
From her soft flesh, hope with it they might play
Instead. She smiles, of course; who could gainsay
Her grace what others do to it attract?
She says no word to them, replies not back
To written pleas, not uncouth or with tact,
Nor yet to spoken words they belch aloud,
Guttural cacophonies of which they’re proud;
Children will act thus when they’re allowed,
And she is old, though she is born again
Today, the pilgrimage’s ever-friend.
It’s not just sonnets I can write for you–but I’m pleased to write them, too!
Elliott RWI 