Night now lifts the sombre mantle
From the moon-pale morning's shoulder;
Crimson satin mists enfold her
Dusky dew-glossed limbs. With gentle

Gestures morning makes her face,
And sets her jewels languidly
About the hills, the sky, the sea,
Then flames to ash - but leaves in place

A band of gold. One thorny tree
Stands up in hill-top silhouette
Where a watery sun, like a citrine set
In a buckle of delicate filligree,

Lifts gently from its twisted clasp.
Soon Time, with patient lapidary
Skill will mount this jewel on very
Heaven's hand, that stoops to grasp

The dropping reins of noonday light,
And westward drives the slumbrous wain
Of nightfall, sowing showers of grain -
The stars - behind him, left and right.