ON A FINE MORNING

Whence comes Solace?— Not from seeing

What is doing, suffering, being,

Not from noting Life's conditions,

Nor from heeding Time's monitions;

But in cleaving to the Dream,

And in gazing at the gleam

Whereby gray things golden seem.

Thus do I this heyday, holding

Shadows but as lights unfolding,

As no specious show this moment

With its irised embowment;

But as nothing other than

Part of a benignant plan;

Proof that earth was made for man.