The calm of morning is a pseudo-rest,
A feigning pause within the storm of day.
It has the normal giddiness, but dressed
In mirror-coats, to shine the stress away.
Only because the tired, half-awake
Problems of the day are coffeeless
Can morning any seeming headway make
Against the cares that so painfully press
On other hours. Day has not yet risen
To its full height, and so neither has worry:
Yet it is not that trouble is in prison,
But rather that its normal desperate hurry
Is half-allayed by being sleepy-headed:
But so are we, so it must still be dreaded.
No comments:
Post a Comment