By Jones Very
From Poems by Jones Very.
THE light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object—hill, and stream, and skies—
Rejoice within th’ encircling line to be.
‘T is day,—the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen’s din,
The traveler with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently, too, within the breast,—
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.