THE INWARD MORNINGBy Henry D.

ThoreauPacked in my mind lie all the clothesWhich outward nature wears,And in its fasion’s hourly changeIt all things else repairsIn vain I look for change abroad,And can no difference find,Till som new ray of peace uncalledIllumes my inmost mind.

What is it gilds the trees and cloudsAnd paints the heavens so gay,But yonder fast-abiding lightWith its unchanging ray?

Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,Upon a winter’s morn,Where’er his silent beams intrudeThe murky night is gone.

How could the patient pine have knownThe morning breeze would come,Or humble flowers anticipateThe insect’s noonday hum, —Till the new light with morning cheerFrom far streamed through the aisles,And nimbly told the forest treesFor many stretching miles?

I’ve heard within my inmost soulSuch cheerful news,In the horizon of my mindHave seen such orient hues,As in the twilight of the dawn,When the first awake,Are heard within some silent wood,Where they the small twigs break,Or in the eastern skies are seen,Before the sun appears,The harbingers of summer heatsWhich from afar he bears.

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