 Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachok. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, as struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep the joy or grief which it had last to keep. For us, and by the joy or grief we see, the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Caitlin Buckley. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep the joy or grief which it had last to keep. For us, and by the joy or grief we see, the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Chad Horner from Ballyclair. In County Edge of Northern Ireland. Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep. For us, and by the joy or grief we see, the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true, and of whom this recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see, the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Elaine Conway. England. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see, the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Emily Presky-Arenholz. On what a strange bewilderment do we wake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Newgate Novelist. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, how struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Kevin S. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out of the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. In what a strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. In what strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Neema. In what strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Phil Shampf. In what strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out of the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Morne, by Helen Hunt Jackson. Red for LibriVox.org by Tyvarish. In what strange bewilderment do we awake each morne from out of the brief night's sleep, our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep its slow way back, as if it could not free itself from buns unseen. Then memory, like sudden light, outflashes from its deep, the joy or grief which it had last to keep for us, and by the joy or grief we see the new day, Donoth, like the yesterday. We are unchanged, our life the same we knew before. I wonder if this is the way we wake from death's short sleep, to struggle through a brief bewilderment, and in dismay behold our life unto our old life true. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.