EVERY day has its dawn, <br />Its soft and silent eve, <br />Its noontide hours of bliss or bale;-- <br />Why should we grieve? <br /> <br />Why do we heap huge mounds of years <br />Before us and behind, <br />And scorn the little days that pass <br />Like angels on the wind? <br /> <br />Each turning round a small sweet face <br />As beautiful as near; <br />Because it is so small a face <br />We will not see it clear: <br /> <br />We will not clasp it as it flies, <br />And kiss its lips and brow: <br />We will not bathe our wearied souls <br />In its delicious Now. <br /> <br />And so it turns from us, and goes <br />Away in sad disdain: <br />Though we would give our lives for it, <br />It never comes again. <br /> <br />Yet, every day has its dawn, <br />Its noontide and its eve: <br />Live while we live, giving God thanks-- <br />He will not let us grieve.<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/day-by-day-44/
