Morning poems
/ page 295 of 310 /
Wonderment
© Siegfried Sassoon
Then a wind blew;
And he who had forgot he moved
Lonely amid the green and silver morning weather,
Suddenly grew
Before Day
© Siegfried Sassoon
When the first lark goes up to look for day
And morning glimmers out of dreams, come then
Out of the songless valleys, over grey
Wide misty lands to bring me on my way:
For I am lone, a dweller among men
Hungered for what my heart shall never say.
Nimrod in September
© Siegfried Sassoon
When half the drowsy worlds a-bed
And misty morning rises red,
With jollity of horn and lusty cheer,
Young Nimrod urges on his dwindling rout;
Morning-Land
© Siegfried Sassoon
Old English songs, you bring to me
A simple sweetness somewhat kin
To birds that through the mystery
Of earliest morn make tuneful din,
South Wind
© Siegfried Sassoon
Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,
With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow,
Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket?
Break of Day
© Siegfried Sassoon
There seemed a smell of autumn in the air
At the bleak end of night; he shivered there
In a dank, musty dug-out where he lay,
Legs wrapped in sand-bags,lumps of chalk and clay
The Dream
© Siegfried Sassoon
I cannot hear their voices, but I see
Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,
And soon theyll sleep like logs. Ten miles away
The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife.
And I must lead them nearer, day by day,
To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.
The Last Meeting
© Siegfried Sassoon
Because the night was falling warm and still
Upon a golden day at Aprils end,
I thought; I will go up the hill once more
To find the face of him that I have lost,
And speak with him before his ghost has flown
Far from the earth that might not keep him long.
Morning Express
© Siegfried Sassoon
Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white,
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light,
Offering themselves to morns long, slanting arrows.
The trains due; porters trundle laden barrows.
The Imperfect Lover
© Siegfried Sassoon
I never asked you to be perfectdid I?
Though often Ive called you sweet, in the invasion
Of mastering love. I never prayed that you
Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,
Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.
Noah
© Siegfried Sassoon
When old Noah stared across the floods,
Sky and water melted into one
Looking-glass of shifting tides and sun.
Together
© Siegfried Sassoon
Splashing along the boggy woods all day,
And over brambled hedge and holding clay,
I shall not think of him:
But when the watery fields grow brown and dim,
Morning-Glory
© Siegfried Sassoon
Clear the sunlit steeples chime
Marys coronation-time.
Loud the happy children quire
To the golden-windowed morn;
While the lord of their desire
Sleeps below the crimson thorn.
The Old Huntsman
© Siegfried Sassoon
Id have been prosperous if Id took a farm
Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled
At Monday markets; now Ive squandered all
My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got
As testimonial when Id grown too stiff
And slow to press a beaten fox.
The Goldsmith
© Siegfried Sassoon
'This job's the best I've done.' He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he'd wrought.
A bird was singing. But the craftsman's thought
Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.
Stand-To: Good Friday Morning
© Siegfried Sassoon
Id been on duty from two till four.
I went and stared at the dug-out door.
Down in the frowst I heard them snore.
Stand to! Somebody grunted and swore.
Memory
© Siegfried Sassoon
When I was young my heart and head were light,
And I was gay and feckless as a colt
Out in the fields, with morning in the may,
Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom.
Alone
© Siegfried Sassoon
Ive listened: and all the sounds I heard
Were music,wind, and stream, and bird.
With youth who sang from hill to hill
Ive listened: my heart is hungry still.
Died of Wounds
© Siegfried Sassoon
His wet white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell
His troubled voice: he did the business well.
Idyll
© Siegfried Sassoon
In the grey summer garden I shall find you
With day-break and the morning hills behind you.
There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;
And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.
