By Monday I'll have flown away,
the stars will be my home;
the light at night will carry me
through rubor and through gloam.
By Tuesday I'll have sailed away,
the sea will carry me
from age to age, from world to world,
through hope's eternity.
But Wednesday all the world will fade,
this world that I have dreamed,
and I will find the things themselves
in some bright candle-gleam.
By Thursday I will catch the wind
and make the shadows live;
but I am also but a shade
lost in some shadow's rift.
By Friday I will fall asleep
upon death's farther shore
and taste the tears of sorrow's shame
and live my life once more.
By Saturday I will have built
a tomb of thought and stone
and take my supper with the gods,
then break my fast alone.
But Sunday -- ah, what can I say
of Sunday's sunrise red?
Like a door I pass it through
to Monday with the dead.