But if a day of rest, though washed in sun
and of repose and worship sweet with draughts,
folds into dread while yet the goldfinch laughs,
the dread of anxious waking, Sunday done;
then what has hope to say in its defense
which hurried this while last week yet was green?
Then rest is youthful dread that dead hopes wean;
or else hope is the enemy of sense.
I better know the stifling weekday womb,
which as it hastens growth more balks at birth,
than any other waiting room on earth,
till I shall learn to loiter in a tomb.
What breathes in thrashing surfs of day on day,
if not this scowling midwife of decay?