Morn

In what a strange bewilderment do we Awake each morn from out the brief night’s sleep. Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep Its slow way back, as if it could not free Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory, Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep The joy or grief which it had last to keep For us; and by the joy or grief we see The new day dawneth like the yesterday; We are unchanged; our life the same we knew Before. I wonder if this is the way We wake from death’s short sleep, to struggle through A brief bewilderment, and in dismay Behold our life unto our old life true.

Collection: 
English
Helen Fiske Jackson

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