Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)

NATURE doth have her dawn each day,

But mine are far between;

Content, I cry, for, sooth to say,

Mine brightest are, I ween.

For when my sun doth deign to rise,

Though it be her noontide,

Her fairest field in shadow lies,

Nor can my light abide.

Sometimes I bask me in her day,

Conversing with my mate,

But if we interchange one ray,

Forthwith her heats abate.

Through his discourse I climb and see

As from some eastern hill,

A brighter morrow rise to me

Than lieth in her skill.

As ’t were two summer days in one,

Two Sundays come together,

Our rays united make one sun,

With fairest summer weather.