By Arthur Stilwell
The reluctant east graduals into light,
Morning's cheeks blush gently, high tops of trees
Receive the sun's first kiss, and stand at ease
While that soft embrace slides down warm and bright,
Nothing now remains of dimness or night,
All things are moving, leaves and grain, new breeze
Whose scents the early-morning people please,
Paint-box butterflies glint uncertain flight;
Such shows befriend us. But much intervenes:
We live inwardness, seek busy self-ends,
Scrabble like rats in mazes and routines,
Till on such things our main life depends.
Let not winter make you cry, What've I seen?
What have I felt? In what world have I been?
Published in Western People, Saskatoon