By John B. Tabb

What was thy dream, sweet Morning? for, behold,’
Thine eyes are heavy with the balm of night,
And, as reluctant lilies to the light,
The languid lids of lethargy unfold.
Was it the tale of Yesterday retold —
An echo wakened from the western height,
Where the warm glow of sunset dalliance bright
Grew, with the pulse of waning passion, cold?
Or was it some heraldic vision grand
Of legends that forgotten ages keep
In twilight, where the sundering shoals of day
Vex the dim sails, unpiloted, of Sleep,
Till, one by one, the freighting fancies gay,
Like bubbles, vanish on the treacherous strand?