At Mass
No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,
And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate
Fill thou my soul with hidden wine
To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour
I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice
Has laid temptation low.
Poem by
Vachel Lindsay
Biography |
Poems
| Best Poems | Short Poems
| Quotes
|
Email Poem |
More Poems by Vachel Lindsay
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on At Mass
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem At Mass here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.