Turn to thy window in the silver hour
  That day comes stepping down the hills of night,
Infolded as the leaves infold a flower
  By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.
Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow,
  The miracle of morning seems to say,
"There is no night without its dear to-morrow,
  No lonely dark that does not find the day."


This poem is in the public domain.