There's Nothing Like the Sun
THERE'S nothing like the sun as the year dies,Kind as it can be, this world being made so,To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies,To all things that it touches except snow,Whether on mountain side or street of town.The south wall warms me: November has begun,Yet never shone the sun as fair as nowWhile the sweet last-left damsons from the boughWith spangles of the morning's storm drop downBecause the starling shakes it, whistling whatOnce swallows sang. But I have not forgotThat there is nothing, too, like March's sun,Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's,Or January's, or February's, great days:And August, September, October, and DecemberHave equal days, all different from November.No day of any month but I have said--Or, if I could live long enough, should say--"There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day"There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.