MORN.
215
Gone some fine evening, a spark out-tost!
The world no darker for one star lost!
The world no darker for one star lost!
Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame;
Each to his passion; what's in a name?
Each to his passion; what's in a name?
MORN.
N what a strange bewilderment do weAwake each morn from out the brief night's sleep.
Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep
Its slow way back, as if it could not free
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory,
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep
The joy or grief which it had last to keep
For us; and by the joy or grief we see
The new day dawneth like the yesterday;
We are unchanged; our life the same we knew
Before. I wonder if this is the way
We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through
A brief bewilderment, and in dismay
Behold our life unto our old life true.
