It's strange to do things in the morning now:
After I get up, I mean. It's weird
For by some alchemy (I don't know how)
My daytime hours have all disappeared
For many years, and as they reappear
I don't quite know what I should do with them.
Of course, each minute of the day is dear,
And if I treat each moment like a gem
It hardly matters where the sun is. But
All times are not created equal, nor
Can I afford to treat them so. I shut
My eyes against the sun, and loathe it more
Than I can say; it's therefore mean of morning
To spring itself upon me without warning.
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