Morning

 
The hollyhocks are red and pink

     Worlds in which the bees wander:

They radiate their colours under

     My window, but I do not think

Of them the way I should:

By growing where they are, they reach

          A final good.

 

The chattering birds along the eaves

     Speak in a mode unlike my own:

Why must their always happy tone

     Contrast with mine, which too much grieves

Over itself and those

Things which I have no power to change,

          While summer goes?

 

This gentle cat’s resposeful face,

     Unmarred by sufferings meekly borne,

Is beautiful and makes me mourn

     My own much troubled want of grace:

Her uncomplaining voice

Welcomes the merest look of love,

          Pleased to rejoice.

 

Flowers and birds, my cat, I see,

     All here about me as I write:

Red and pink and black and white,

     Each with its own identity,

All are fulfilled, at peace,

And with this poem, by being, bring

          My own release.