Upon Waking

Thin dawn,
And the sighing of the world without.
I roll from my pallet, worn from rest,
Beset by a murmur of incoherent dreams,
And in my breast a dull unease.
Outside the day, and on the hills
The first soft blush of spring.
Within, a single changeless season,
Endless measured hours,
And monotonous count of days.
Here abides the ungrasped hope,
The high suspense of verging:
Of drawing ever near but never to;
Of being, at this waking, dreamed,
And far, so far, from you.