30.07.2007, 10:56
Morning
The light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object, hill, and stream, and skies,
Rejoice within the encircling line to be;
‘T is day: the field is filld with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen’s din,
The traveller with his staff all ready stands
His jet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast, -
Yet here no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, - it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.
The light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object, hill, and stream, and skies,
Rejoice within the encircling line to be;
‘T is day: the field is filld with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen’s din,
The traveller with his staff all ready stands
His jet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast, -
Yet here no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff, - it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.