Poems (Jackson)/Morn
MORN.
N what a strange bewilderment do weAwake each morn from out the brief night's sleep.Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creepIts slow way back, as if it could not freeItself from bonds unseen. Then Memory,Like sudden light, outflashes from its deepThe joy or grief which it had last to keepFor us; and by the joy or grief we seeThe new day dawneth like the yesterday;We are unchanged; our life the same we knewBefore. I wonder if this is the wayWe wake from death's short sleep, to struggle throughA brief bewilderment, and in dismayBehold our life unto our old life true.