Poems (Greenwell)/When the Night and Morning Meet
WHEN THE NIGHT AND MORNING MEET.
In the dark and narrow street, Into a world of woe, Where the tread of many feet Went trampling to and fro, A child was born—speak low! When the night and morning meet.
Full seventy summers back Was this; so long ago, The feet that wore the track Are lying straight and low,—Yet hath there been no lack Of passers to and fro.
Within the narrow street This childhood ever played; Beyond the narrow street This manhood never strayed; This age sat still and prayed Anear the trampling feet.
The tread of ceaseless feet Flowed through his life, unstirred By waters' fall, or fleet Wind music, or the bird Of morn,—these sounds are sweet, But they were still unheard.
Within the narrow street I stood beside a bed— I held a dying head When the night and morning meet; And every word was sweet, Though few the words we said.
And as we talked, dawn drew To day—the world was fair In fields afar, I knew; Yet spoke not to him there Of how the grasses grew. Besprent with dew-drops rare.
We spoke not of the sun, Nor of this green earth fair; This soul, whose day was done, Had never claimed its share In these, and yet its rare Rich heritage had won.
From the dark and narrow street Into a world of love A child was born,—speak low, Speak reverent, for we know Not how they speak above, When the night and morning meet.