That day is lost which brings no thrill
Beyond the drag of farm or mill,
That sees no flash, with ready eye,
Of wind-free visions fleeting by,
Monotony’ s brown husk to kill.
Whose soul jumps only at the spill
Of rival’s blood, or at the chill
Bright clink of coins, will come
“That day is lost.”
But he who, tingling, drinks his fill
Of blazoned skies, who has the will
To fight to hold his ideals high
Out of this muck, will never cry:
(However steep his rock-strewn hill)
“That day is lost.”
by Ray Romine Sunday, October 28, 1945
