The morning comes, not slow with reddening gold, But wildly driven with windy shower and sway As if the wind would blow the dark away: Voices of wail, of misery multifold, Wake with the light and its harsh glare obey. And yet I walk betimes this day of spring, Still my own private portion reckoning, Not to compute, though every tear be told. O might I on the gale my sorrow fling! But sweep, sweep on, wild blast; who bids thee stay? Across the stormy headlands shriek and sing And, earlier than the daytime bring the day To pouring eyes half-quenched with watery sight, And breaking hearts that hate the morning light. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MAN'S VOCATION IS NOBODY'S BUSINESS by JAMES GALVIN DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |