End of Term

Normally Monday comes,

Stalking like an illness,

Disturbing the sleeping debris,

Of Sunday night.

But this Monday,

Rushes trumpeted in,

A heraldic storm,

A winged promethean messenger.

For Summer has no such Mondays,

And the endless possibilities of childhood,

And the smooth cocoon of muturity,

Offer undreamt excitement,

And plunging rest before,

September comes reborn,

And Monday stalks again.


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