The poem
I count each day a little life, With birth and death complete; I cloister it from care and strife And keep it sane and sweet.
With eager eyes I greet the morn, Exultant as a boy, Knowing that I am newly born To wonder and to joy.
And when the sunset splendours wane And ripe for rest am I, Knowing that I will live again, Exultantly I die.
O that all Life were but a Day Sunny and sweet and sane! And that at Even I might say: "I sleep to wake again."