In what a strange bewilderment do we <br />Awake each morn from out the brief night's sleep. <br />Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep <br />Its slow way back, as if it could not free <br />Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, <br />Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep <br />The joy or grief which it had last to keep <br />For us; and by the joy or grief we see <br />The new day dawneth like the yesterday; <br />We are unchanged; our life the same we knew <br />Before. I wonder if this is the way <br />We wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through <br />A brief bewilderment, and in dismay <br />Behold our life unto our old life true.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morn/
