By Ruby Archer
Young Morn treads lightly o’er the hills
With starry eyes.
Her presence all the darkness fills,
That, fainting, flies.
The world lies waiting at her feet
In quick suspense,
And all his being seems to beat
With pulse intense.
Her foot leaves silver on the dew
That kissing dies.
Her bosom’s dainty, rose-bud hue
Emblooms the skies.
Her softly taken breath but stirs
A dreamy cloud,
And moves the stately-standing firs
To homage proud.
About her floats in gauzy folds
A garment fine.
A glint of starry beams it holds,
And white moonshine.
Diaphanous, it trails and flees—
And intervening are the trees
All dimly wrought.
How subtle charm, when half betrayed,
Where shadow broods,
On Rembrandt background, mind portrayed,
What eye eludes.
Thou, Morning, with thy mist-veiled grace
Art fairer far
Than if we saw thy radiant face
With naught to bar.
Ay, pensive Morn, thy misty dress
Thee well beseems,
For thou hast all thy loveliness,
And we—our dreams.