"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Daniel Morgan

Not all at once comes the morning.
Sometimes it must contend with fog.
If I'd my walking stick and Frost,
The dawn mightn't venture like a dog
Sheltered from climes and seasons
Of what forgot to be unclogged.

Or like the maid mourning what time
She met with Heaven on another
Gray star-dust lane, and asks,
"Is this the day, Sir? I'd rather
Our bright marriage not be arranged.
But if it must, now's good weather,
That is, if this, Sir, be the day."

Then suddenly comes hyacinth
And August has poured out its lees.
I'm forgetful like spring winds once
They're among the winter-bare trees.
When lost, they just turn out their coats
Then find the dog and girl on knees.