Henry David THOREAU


The Inward Morning

Packed in my mind lie all the clothes

⁠ Which outward nature wears,

And in its fashion's hourly change

⁠ It all things else repairs.

In vain I look for change abroad,

⁠ And can no difference find,

Till some new ray of peace uncalled

⁠ Illumes my inmost mind.

What is it gilds the trees and clouds,

⁠ And paints the heavens so gay,

But yonder fast-abiding light

⁠ With its unchanging ray?

Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,

⁠ Upon a winter's morn,

Where'er his silent beams intrude

⁠ The murky night is gone.

How could the patient pine have known

⁠ The morning breeze would come,

Or humble flowers anticipate

⁠ The insect's noonday hum,—

Till the new light with morning cheer

⁠ From far streamed through the aisles,

And nimbly told the forest trees

⁠ For many stretching miles?

I've heard within my inmost soul

⁠ Such cheerful morning news,

In the horizon of my mind

⁠ Have seen such orient hues,

As in the twilight of the dawn,

⁠ When the first birds 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 heats

⁠ Which from afar he bears.