  It has been a long day, A long, long day; And now in floods of twilight, In long green waves of sunset softly flowing, Evening. It is evening over the great towns, It is evening in our hearts. And though the last frail tendrils And flowers of incense Have long ago uncurled themselves around The cynical Cathedral, I hear the thin white voices of children, Little girls and little boys, Calling the name of Jesus And His most Sacred Heart, Singing about a kind of parish heaven, A little walled city, all golden and lilac, Like the one seen by FranÇois Villon's mother In an old, bituminous, smoke-bitten painting Of the Middle Ages. And in this faith she wished to live and die. [Transcriber's Note: Untitled poems whose titles are omitted in the body of the text as originally published have had their conventional "first line" titles (as seen in the table of contents) added to the body of this transcription. They are enclosed in square brackets and are in gray text as an indication to the reader.] |
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