Morning

The light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object, — hill, and stream, and slues,
Rejoice within the encircling line to be;
'T is day, — the field is fill'd with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din,
The traveller with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast, —
Yet there 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.