Morning
Not least, ’t is ever my delight
To drink the early morning light;
To take the air upon my tongue
And taste it while the day is young.
So let my solace be the breath
Of morning, when I move to death.
More poems by Philip Henry Savage
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Infinity
I Dare not think that thou art by, to stand
And face omnipotence so near at hand!
When I consider thee, how must I shrink; … -
Silkweed
Lighter than dandelion down,
Or feathers from the white moth’s wing,
Out of the gates of bramble-town … -
Solitude
As one advances up the slow ascent
Along the pathway in the woods, the trees
Change aspect, nor alone in this, but change …