Days

With stairs of golden flames that beam As upwards climb to reach the day. Through blinding hours that death does seem, Through hours where spillings bright display.

Thus Fate, an ocean rough and wide, Yet flood the vale of changing light; The colors dancing take what bides And show themselves a crowded sight.

Watch when doves are camping on the ground; Their laughter mingling beneath sways, A measure, all enter sweet and sound, Each spark admits whose calls they praise.

• Ralph Waldo Emerson