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.