Proud morning came to wake us, cold and stark;
Her naked face was raw, her hand was chill;
She made the blood run thin, and she kept still
In iron grip the sharp trees in the park.
She came unwanted when the warmer dark
Fled at her sight; she came on earth to kill
The vital spark; she let no tear-drop spill,
Nor e’en a passing foot leave any mark.
O Morning, we are one in that we hate
The ugly scene our waking eyes disclose,
This spot of stone and brick and square-cut slate.
But when I meet thee where the cushag blows
They frown is then a smile, and by the hand
Thou leadest me through glittering fairyland.

Seventy-fourth Sonnet

4. 11. 30