At Dawn Poem by Virna Sheard
At Dawn
Turn to thy window in the silver hour
That day comes stepping down the hills of night,
Infolded as the leaves infold a flower
By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.
Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow,
The miracle of morning seems to say,
'There is no night without its dear to-morrow,
No lonely dark that does not find the day.'
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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I would like to translate this poem
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4/16/2024 6:48:02 PM # 1.0.0.1119
nice and short I like your concept