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 | Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman |  |
192
[XXII. The morning comes; not slow, with reddening gold]
The morning comes; not slow, with reddening goldBut wildly driven, with windy shower, and sway
As though 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.
Oh, 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.
| Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman | |