The Glory by Edward Thomas

The glory of the beauty of the morning, -
The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;
The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;
White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;
The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy
Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -
The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
All I can ever do, all I can be
Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue
The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell
Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops
In hope to find whatever it is I seek
Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?
Or must I be content with discontent
As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?
And shall I ask at the day's end once more
What beauty is, and what I can have meant
By happiness? And shall I let all go
Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
That I was happy oft and oft before
Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent
How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to
Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core