THE POET'S DELAY

by: Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

      N vain I see the morning rise,
      In vain observe the western blaze,
      Who idly look to other skies,
      Expecting life by other ways.
       
      Amidst such boundless wealth without,
      I only still am poor within,
      The birds have sung their summer out,
      But still my spring does not begin.
       
      Shall I then wait the autumn wind,
      Compelled to seek a milder day,
      And leave no curious nest behind,
      No woods still echoing to my lay?

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