Matins

Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky:Through vapors hurrying by,Larger than wont, on highFloats the horned, yellow moon.Chill airs are faintly stirred,And far away is heard,Of some fresh-awakened bird,The querulous, shrill tune.

The dark mist hides the faceOf the dim land: no traceOf rock or river's placeIn the thick air is drawn;But dripping grass smells sweet,And rustling branches meet,And sounding water greetThe slow, sure, sacred dawn.

Past is the long black night,With its keen lightnings white,Thunder and floods: new lightThe glimmering low east streaks.The dense clouds part: betweenTheir jagged rents are seenPale reaches blue and green,As the mirk curtain breaks.

Above the shadowy world,Still more and more unfurled,The gathered mists upcurledLike phantoms melt and pass.In clear-obscure revealed,Brown wood, gray stream, dark field:Fresh, healthy odors yieldWet furrows, flowers, and grass.

The sudden, splendid gleamOf one thin, golden beamShoots from the feathered rimOf yon hill crowned with woods.Down its embowered side,As living waters slide,So the great morning tideFollows in sunny floods.

From bush and hedge and treeJoy, unrestrained and free,Breaks forth in melody,Twitter and chirp and song:Alive the festal airWith gauze-winged creatures fair,That flicker everywhere,Dart, poise, and flash along.

The shining mists are gone,Slight films of gold swift-blownBefore the strong, bright sunOr the deep-colored sky:A world of life and glowSparkles and basks below,Where the soft meads a-row,Hoary with dew-fall, lie.

Does not the morn break thus,Swift, bright, victorious,With new skies cleared for us,Over the soul storm-tost?Her night was long and deep,Strange visions vexed her sleep,Strange sorrows bade her weep:Her faith in dawn was lost.

No halt, no rest for her,The immortal wandererFrom sphere to higher sphere,Toward the pure source of day.The new light shames her fears,Her faithlessness, her tears,As the new sun appearsTo light her godlike way.