I <br /> <br />In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears, <br />Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way; <br />Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears: <br />'It is night, it is night, it has never been day; <br />Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight; <br />It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night. <br />Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer, <br />For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.' <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie <br />In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, <br />You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear: <br />'It is day, it is day, it has never been night! <br />Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves; <br />It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, <br />Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer <br />Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.'<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-point-of-view-ii/
