Dawn
The Unconquered Air, and Other Poems (1912)
In Orient mysteryThou veilest thee,Pale daughter of the never-quenchéd Light,Who from the couch of NightBy swift-ascending steeds to heaven art borneEre yet thy sister, Morn,Awaiting, dons her wondrous vesture bright.
Like to a handmaid lowly, day by dayThou dost prepare her way;But when soft-trailing saffron and warm roseHalf hide and half discloseHer glowing beauty rare,—When living things her sweet breath quaff,And lift their heads for joy of her, and laugh,Thou art no longer there.
Yet, ah, there moments be,Child of Hyperion, sacred to thee,That dearer gifts confer;When mortals lay before thy sun-lit shrineA thankfulness of worship more divineThan any offered her:
When, after night distressful spent—Night sleepless and intolerably long,Comes—unexpected, eloquent—A tentative, faint note of song!And the o'erwearied watcher sighs,And lying still, with tear-wet eyes,Hearkens the most celestial laysEarth knows; and sees Night's curtains drawnSlowly aside, and whispers: "Dawn!"—Yearning beholds the tender gleamOf Hope's pale star, where it doth beamEternal on thy brow,And in its ray composed and blest,Sinks into rest.