 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
MATINS.
What has the Dawn decided on?—
Silver and fawn?
Crimson and gold?
Or a gown of lawn?
Fold on fold,
A mantle of mist around her drawn,
As oft of old?
Silver and fawn?
Crimson and gold?
Or a gown of lawn?
Fold on fold,
A mantle of mist around her drawn,
As oft of old?
215
Yesterday she went her way
In a cloak of gray,
Laced with rain;
The like array
She may don again,
And, as a nun, with a face like clay,
Pace hill and plain.
In a cloak of gray,
Laced with rain;
The like array
She may don again,
And, as a nun, with a face like clay,
Pace hill and plain.
Or, now suppose, as her way she goes,
She wears a rose
Of fire and dew,
And a cloak, that blows,
Of windy blue,
And a cap of red, where a feather glows,
A cloud or two.
She wears a rose
Of fire and dew,
And a cloak, that blows,
Of windy blue,
And a cap of red, where a feather glows,
A cloud or two.
In no other wise you will see her rise—
Her calm, clear eyes
With joy elate;
Before she tries
High Heaven's gate,
And down the Garden of the Skies
Leads bright her state.
Her calm, clear eyes
With joy elate;
Before she tries
High Heaven's gate,
And down the Garden of the Skies
Leads bright her state.
And with her brings, oh, many things—
A lark that sings,
And gladness of heart;
A flower that springs,
And hope that's part
Of the soul, that lends to life new wings.
To soar and dart.
A lark that sings,
And gladness of heart;
A flower that springs,
And hope that's part
Of the soul, that lends to life new wings.
To soar and dart.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |