At Dawn by Virna Sheard — Read

Turn to thy window in the silver hour / That day comes stepping down the hills of night, / Infolded as the leaves infold a flower / By all her rose-leaf robes of misty light.

Then, like a joy born out of blackest sorrow, / The miracle of morning seems to say, / "There is no night without its dear to-morrow, / No lonely dark that does not find the day. "