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Robert Laurence Binyon - February Night
Work rating: Low

O Weariness, that writest histories
 On all these human faces, and O Sighs
 That somewhere silence hears! You have no part,
 It seems, in the old earth`s deep--flowering heart;
 Your way of solace is a different way.

 A colour comes upon the end of day.
 At this street--corner, budded branches bare
 Trace springing lines upon the tender air;
 But over the far misty flush one`s eye
 Lights at an apparition: lo, on high
 The little moon! as if she came all fresh
 Into this world, where our brief blood and flesh
 Is weary of burdens. She has seen all earth`s
 Most mighty races in their ends and births,
 And all the glory and sorrow wrought and sung
 Since lips found language; and to--night is young.
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