  An early thrush acclaims the light— The wide, low-billowing day O’er dews and grasses chill with night Upcasts its foam of grey. Now end the darkness and its dreams. The ashen moon is low; Like petal-drift on placid streams We watch her sink and go. And like a dryad to her tree The morning star hath sped— Gone ere an eye essayed to see The path whereon she fled. Hark how, as here we stand the wards Of woodlands newly green, The pine’s innumerable chords Are touched by hands unseen! Hearing, the forest seems forlorn And all the air a sigh Of things that seek a vaster morn, And find it not, and die. O tranquil hour! the haggard noon Shall make a ghost of thee Soon to be memory’s, and soon Not even of memory. |
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