 | Through the Gateway |  |
21
MORN IN MID-APRIL.
Dawn with her galloping horses is over the hill,
leading the triumph of Day;
Look how the heaven is paven with roses, and still
Roses grow out of the gray.
leading the triumph of Day;
Look how the heaven is paven with roses, and still
Roses grow out of the gray.
See how the glittering lances are searching the glens,
Setting the daffodil free.
Steam of the sacrifice rises from forests and fens,
Dancing feet dimple the sea.
Setting the daffodil free.
Steam of the sacrifice rises from forests and fens,
Dancing feet dimple the sea.
Lo!—who hath summoned her?—silent new-comer of night,
Traveller weary of wing,
Over the river the swallow hangs, heavy of flight.
Hark! did a nightingale sing?
Traveller weary of wing,
Over the river the swallow hangs, heavy of flight.
Hark! did a nightingale sing?
Just the low prelude—not yet are the raptures of May.
Leap, happy heart to the skies!
Earth and the ages are thine, thou art heir of To-day,
Lord till a new lord arise.
Leap, happy heart to the skies!
Earth and the ages are thine, thou art heir of To-day,
Lord till a new lord arise.
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