Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, And down into its dampest roots Thrills quickened with the draught of life, I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse. I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: Each draught a future bud of Spring; Each glance of blue a birth of green; I will not mimic yonder oak That dallies with dead leaves ev'n while the primrose peeps. But full of these warm-whispering beams, Like Memnon in his mother's eye, -- Aurora! when the statue stone Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, -- My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day! And ever in the recurring light, True to the primal joy of dawn, Forget its barren griefs; and aye Like aspens in the faintest breeze Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PLACE OF PEACE by EDWIN MARKHAM TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER THE BLACK REGIMENT by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THE RIVER by RALPH WALDO EMERSON MEMORY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE EARL O' QUARTERDECK by GEORGE MACDONALD ON THE THRESHOLD by ASTLEY H. BALDWIN THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR by MARY (MAY) ELIZABETH (MCGRATH) BLAKE |