By Mary Bartol
Above the hills a saffron glow—
The heavenly azure deepens higher—
While through dark pines, gleams long and low
A floating lake of fire!
Within the grove fresh winds awake,
A little gush of song is heard,
And every plumy leaf of brake
By breezy sighs is stirred.
One moment’s chant—a hush profound—
Soft songs and ferny dances cease;
To silence dies the murmuring sound,
And motion glides to peace.
The dawn has come with ecstasy,
And I, a part of her and clay,
Breathe in the joy she giveth me,
And put my care away.