Sonnet 108

In its pale glory beams the early day,
The eagle on strong pinion mounts on high,
O'er the calm lake the swan glides peacefully,
The white lambs on the verdant meadow play,
The songster tells his mate, that day is nigh—
The flowers are mirrors, made by dewdrops' ray,
The bolts and bars of human dwellings fly,
And noise rolls o'er the lately silent way:
The darkness and the weariness are past
Of yesternight—and now the morning breaks
In light and beauty undisturb'd—a vast
And glorious renovation; but for me
No morn of hope—no day of brightness wakes—
'Tis an eternal night of misery.