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...ON THE DANGER OF WAR by GEORGE MEREDITH THE LAST MAN: LIFE'S UNCERTAINTY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE DAUGHTER by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS THE LATE STAND-TO by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN GRISELDA: CHAPTER 4 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |