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 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
118
ON A FINE MORNING
I
Whence comes Solace?—Not from seeingWhat is doing, suffering, being,
Not from noting Life's conditions,
Nor from heeding Time's monitions;
But in cleaving to the Dream,
And in gazing at the gleam
Whereby gray things golden seem.
II
Thus do I this heyday, holdingShadows but as lights unfolding,
As no specious show this moment
With its iris-hued embowment;
But as nothing other than
Part of a benignant plan;
Proof that earth was made for man.
February 1899.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |