Ina Coolbrith

1841 – 1928 / Nauvoo, Illinois

A Perfect Day

I WILL be glad to - day: the sun
Smiles all adown the land;
The lilies lean along the way;
Serene on either hand,
The full - blown roses, red and white,
In perfect beauty stand.

The mourning - dove within the woods
Forgets, nor longer grieves;
A light wind lifts the bladed corn,
And ripples the ripe sheaves;
High overhead some happy bird
Sings softly in the leaves.

The butterflies flit by, and bees;
A peach falls to the ground;
The tinkle of a bell is heard
From some far pasture - mound;
The crickets in the warm, green grass
Chirp with a softened sound.

The sky looks down upon the sea,
Blue, with not anywhere
The shadow of a passing cloud;
The sea looks up as fair —
So bright a picture on its breast
As if it smiled to wear.

A day too glad for laughter — nay,
Too glad for happy tears!
The fair earth seems as in a dream
Of immemorial years:
Perhaps of that far morn when she
Sang with her sister spheres.

It may be that she holds to day
Some sacred Sabbath feast:
It may be that some patient soul
Has entered to God's rest,
Por whose dear sake He smiles on
And all the day is blest.
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