This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;



The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;



The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,



And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.



Under a tree in the park,



Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,



Were carefully gathering red berries



To put in a pasteboard box.



Some day there will be no war,



Then I shall take out this afternoon



And turn it in my fingers,



And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,



And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.



To-day I can only gather it



And put it into my lunch-box,



For I have time for nothing



But the endeavour to balance myself



Upon a broken world.





