82
Sunday at Hampstead.
Was it truly a fact or a dream, my Love?
I think my brain still reels,
And my ears still throbbing seem, my Love,
With the rush and the clang of wheels;
Of a vast machinery roaring
For ever in skyless gloom;
Where the poor slaves peace imploring,
Found peace alone in the tomb.
Was it hundreds of years ago, my Love,
Was it thousands of miles away?
Or was it a dream to show, my Love,
The rapture of to-day?
This day of holy splendour,
This Sabbath of rich rest,
Wherein to God we render
All praise by being blest.
IV.
And tea together at five:
And—who would ever believe it?—
We are the first to arrive!
