John Masefield

When we’re on life’s pilgrimage, we stop and pause to experience the dawn and the world around us.

Here’s a poem by John Masefield, (June 1, 1878 – May 12, 1967), English poet and writer, and Poet Laureate from 1930 until 1967.

Dawn

The dawn comes cold: the haystack smokes,
The green twigs crackle in the fire,
The dew is dripping from the oaks,
And sleepy men bear milking-yokes
Slowly towards the cattle-byre.

Down in the town a clock strikes six,
The grey east heaven burns and glows,
The dew shines on the thatch of ricks,
A slow old crone comes gathering sticks,
The red cock in the ox-yard crows.

Beyond the stack where we have lain
The road runs twisted like a snake
(The white road to the land of Spain),
The road that we must foot again,
Though the feet halt and the heart ache.

--John Masefield