Morning

GRAY-VESTED Dawn, with flameless, tranquil eye, Cool hands, and dewy lips, is in the sky, A sober nun, with starry rosary. With eyes downcast and with uplifted palm, She seems to whisper now her silent psalm; Beneath her gaze the sleeping earth is calm. Her prayer is ended, and she riseth slow, And o'er the hills she quietly doth go, Noiseless and gentle as the midnight snow. Then suddenly the pale-east blushes red, The flowers to see upraise a sleepy head, The rosy colors deepen, grow, and spread. A cool breeze whispers: 'She is coming now!' And then the radiant colors burn and glow, The white cast blushes over cheek and brow, And glorious on the hills the Morning stands, Her saffron hair back-blown from rosy bands, And light and joy and fragrance in her hands. Her foot has touched the hill-tops, and they shine; She comes,— the willow rustles and the pine; She smiles upon the fields a smile divine, And all the earth smiles back; from mount to vale, From oak to shuddering grass, from glen to dale, Wet fields and flowers and glistening brooks cry 'Hail!'