The Inward Morning

by Henry David Thoreau

　　Packed in my mind lie all the clothes ⁠Which outward nature wears, And in its fashion's hourly change ⁠It all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad, ⁠And can no difference find, Till some new ray of peace uncalled ⁠Illumes my inmost mind. What is it gilds the trees and clouds, ⁠And paints the heavens so gay, But yonder fast-abiding light ⁠With its unchanging ray? Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, ⁠Upon a winter's morn, Where'er his silent beams intrude ⁠The murky night is gone. How could the patient pine have known ⁠The morning breeze would come, Or humble flowers anticipate ⁠The insect's noonday hum,— Till the new light with morning cheer ⁠From far streamed through the aisles, And nimbly told the forest trees ⁠For many stretching miles? I've heard within my inmost soul ⁠Such cheerful morning news, In the horizon of my mind ⁠Have seen such orient hues, As in the twilight of the dawn, ⁠When the first birds awake, Are heard within some silent wood, ⁠Where they the small twigs break, Or in the eastern skies are seen, ⁠Before the sun appears, The harbingers of summer heats ⁠Which from afar he bears.