SUNDAY AFTERNOON
The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun
A sector of its lucent arc
About the disillusioned sun
Of Autumn. The bright angry spark
Of Heaven in each upturned eye
Denotes religious ecstasy.
We, too, have spun our Sunday round
Of Church and beef and after-sleep
In houses where obtrudes no sound
But breathing, regular and deep,
Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed,
Demands a visit to the Dead.
For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget,
As from life's tree they clatter down,
And Death has caught some in her net
Even on Sunday,—in this Town,
Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet!
The dead leaves rattle down the street.
Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate
Their way along; if Death comes soon
They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float
Heavenward, like some huge balloon.
Religion dims each vacant eye
As we approach the cemet'ry.
Proudly we walk; with care we bend
To lead our children by the hand,
Here, where all, rich and poor, must end
—This portal to a better land