Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner

Morning Sorrows

Sad memory wakes anew at morning's touch
And, as some muscles move without our will,
She seizes, with involuntary clutch,
The sorrow that we hate, our bosom ill;
But we are formed with such fine wisdom, such
A Providence our moral need supplies,
That we can seldom overrate our sighs
Nor prize our organs of regret too much;
Then welcome still these ever-new returns
Of anguish! Who escapes or can escape
The burthen, while the great world sins and mourns?
Grief comes to all, whatever be her shape
To each, but we are framed with pain to cope;
And, when we bow, we help our climbing hope.

1. From Harvest to January
2. The Rookery
3. East or West?
4. We Cannot Keep Delight
5. The Lion’s Skeleton

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