Sonnet Xlvi. Each Morn The Same Sun Rises On Our Day, Poem by Henry Alford

Each morn the same sun rises on our day,
Measuring with every year his usual round;
The merry bells that for our birthdays sound,
And those that knoll us to our homes of clay,
Speak ever with one voice; the skies obey
Spring whispering soft, and summer blossom--crowned,
And autumn flush, and winter icy--bound:
Down Life's smooth channel Ages sleep their way.
The babe that smiling in her slumber lies
Lapt in thy breast, hath been there oft before;
This day, this room, hath all been acted e'er;
And even the thought not first in me doth rise;--
Time measures but the course of human will;
'Tis we that move, while Providence is still.