The Sunrise Of The Poor Poem by Robert Burns Wilson

A DARKENED hut outlined against the sky,
A forward-looking slope,—some cedar trees,
Gaunt grasses stirred by the awaking breeze,
And nearer, where the grayer shadows lie,
Within a small paled square, one may descry
The beds wherein the Poor first taste of ease,
Where dewy rose-vines drop their spicy lees
Above the dreamless ashes, silently.
A lonely woman leans there,—bent and gray:
Outlined in part against the shadowed hill,
In part against the sky, in which the day
Begins to blaze. O earth, so sweet,—so still!—
The woman sighs, and draws a long, deep breath:
It is the call to labor,—not to death.