Morning

Soft the veil you wear and light,

Yet often so sinister,

That all that might still glister,

Is taken from our sight.

We stumble thus, for you do blister

Us, blinded, as our anxious blight,

With every thought hastes to collide.

And reason is a whisper.

With warmth take us from slumber,

Lift up what may encumber,

The calming hands of morning.

That after what we dread and fear,

And what at first might seem severe,

There will always come a dawning.