A Sunday of Dictators

BRIGHT in the greening parks,
The people walk about
Till evening darks
The way they pass.

Too glad of life to doubt,
Woman and man bring home
Small limbs tired out,
Soft shapes they love.

History, turning, broke some
Tyrants less dull than ours.
The roll will come
That crushes these.

Coward, for all their powers,
Of one thing they are sure:
Their time is hours —
The people will endure.