Day.
(A Picture by E. Burne Jones.)
Day, the strong youth, across the threshold stands1
With hand upon the morning’s open door,2
And out behind him grows from more to more3
Light, and the murmur of the labouring lands.4
He hath the golden flame within his hands5
That lights the green sea whitening to the shore ;6
Yet nothing careth he for toil or war,7
Or joy or grief, though he unloose the bands8
That hold them down in slumber ; and the earth9
Wakes, and the daisies open : only he10
Hath no delight or woe with darkness done.11
He saith, “ My life is weary at its birth ;12
The thing that hath been is the thing to be,13
And there is no new thing beneath the sun.’14