The light will never open sightless eyes, <br />It comes to those who willingly would see; <br />And every object,—hill, and stream, and skies,— <br />Rejoice within th' encircling line to be; <br />'Tis day,—the field is filled with busy hands, <br />The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din, <br />The traveller with his staff already stands <br />His yet unmeasured journey to begin; <br />The light breaks gently too within the breast,— <br />Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn, <br />The forge and noisy anvil are at rest, <br />Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn, <br />Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day <br />To those who find on earth their place to stay.<br /><br />Jones Very<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-89/
