Poetry Archives

I count each day a little life,
        With birth and death complete;
I cloister it from care and strife
        And keep it sane and sweet.
        
With eager eyes I greet the morn,
        Exultant as a boy,
Knowing that I am newly born
        To wonder and to joy.
        
And when the sunset splendours wane
        And ripe for rest am I,
Knowing that I will live again,
        Exultantly I die.
        
O that all Life were but a Day
        Sunny and sweet and sane!
And that at Even I might say:
        “I sleep to wake again.”