On a Fine Morning
Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeingWhat is doing, suffering, being,Not from noting Life’s conditions,Nor from heeding Time’s monitions;But in cleaving to the Dream,And in gazing at the gleamWhereby gray things golden seem.
Thus do I this heyday, holdingShadows but as lights unfolding,As no specious show this momentWith its irisèd embowment;But as nothing other thanPart of a benignant plan;Proof that earth was made for man.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.