Not to my eyes shall be made visible
Ever again morning or noon or twilight,—
Not to my eyes—which are my servants now
No longer, save as servants in the grave.
But to my forehead and my finger-tips
The days give touch of bud and opening
And of their bloom and of their hovering fall.
The morrow shall be born with sighs and rain,
But this is peace, this twilight, this is pause
Between the sunny and the rainy day,