Poem January 6, 1951 Issue

DAY

Rita Berman

Oh , that this day were done,
Sighing, he said;
Burdens, despair, and fear,
Frustrations looming near,
Bow down my head.

But angels were at hand.
He heard one say:
Whence did those hours arise
From which you would flee?
Whence is the day?

In Spirit's reflection are dawn
And evening's sweet calm,
Grandeur of view as the stars;
Ascendant joy that is noon,
Peace that is breeze of balm.

Reflection is morning and light,
Irradiance of Mind.
How can the light be dimmed
Unless it be you
That draw the blind?

In you are the gentle dews—
The freshets of Love;
In you the pure air of hope,
In you the heavens.
Look not above

For sky or for sign of weather,
Sunlit or gray.
In you the winds of clearing
And the horizon's wideness.
In you the day!

Rita Berman

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