Here is this day,

Across the fields of darkness softly come

Into my silent room,

In the old way;

Stir on the sill and light along the wall,

And scent of early dew;

As old as time, yet new

And fresh and fair as the first day of all.

This is my own.

Tomorrow waits, and yesterday is gone;

But lovely, here and now,

With lifting wind and light on leaf and bough,

Flutter of flower and stir of wakened wing,

New hope, new opportunity, new power,

Bright stuff for me to fashion, hour by hour,

In my own way—

Here is this day.