Virna Sheard

(1865-1943 / Ontario)

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.'

Submitted: Thursday, September 30, 2010

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