by James McAuley
I woke as by a summons. Dawn
Burned low and pale upon its wick.
Across the moonless lawn the trees
Shivered, were still. And in that blurred
Grey world of light, like Naaman
I sank the labour of my sick
Unease, and lay beneath, serene.
Then newly risen, cleanly white,
As I a newborn child had been,
I softly sang, and felt within
Of tenderness so great a flood
I could scarce give my spirit room.
And with a touch of holy dread
The cold grey dew of morning wet my head.
Last updated January 14, 2019