AFTER NIGHT

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

As a maiden, who wakes,

Opening eyes on a world

Filled with wonder and light,

After a sleep of dreams.

Issuing, clad in a robe

Of blue, and silver, and green.

From the tents of God in the east

Comest thou; as a thought

Slippeth into the mind

Of a maid, awakened from sleep,

By the swallows, under the eaves,

Twittering to their young;

As a flower awakens in Spring,

After the sweet warm rains

Pass away, and the sun

Nourishes it; and slow

The curving petals unclose.

And a presence escapes from its heart,

An odour remote, and vague,

Trembling upon the air,

A frail, mysterious ghost,

That comes and goes on the wind,

Like the inspiration of God.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

Coming shy as a maid,

At nightfall, to meet her love

By the ricks of clover and hay.

They speak not, but hands

Meet hands, mouth mouth, and desire

Broods like a God in the night,

Under the yellow moon:

They speak not, having all things.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

Healing comes in thine hands,

The wide sea laughs at thy birth,

The multitudinous waves

Ripple about thy feet,

For joy at thy coming; the birds

Shake the dew from the leaves,

Shake the song from their throats;

The full ewes call to the lambs;

Lowing, the cattle come

To drink at the reed-fringed pool,

Bending, they drink, and lift

Dripping muzzles, to gaze

With patient, satisfied eyes

Over the plenteous earth.

While slowly out of the fens,

And heavy plough-lands the mist

Rises to greet thee, and spires

Of thin blue smoke, that ascend

Trembling into the calm

Windless air, and float

From the habitations of man.

Man, too, cometh forth; but he

Scarcely regards thee: with eyes

Bent to the earth he comes,

Busy with cares of toil,

Plotting to gain him ease,

Meat, drink, and warmth for his age:

Plotting in vain! He goes

Out of the ways of life,

Utterly frustrate, and spent.

Gone, who was king of thy fields!

Gone, who was lord of thy flocks!

Like a dream. And his children forget,

Even they, too, that he was.

They turn to their toil, and eat,

Sleep, drink, as of old he did,

Spinning the woof and the warp

Of life, on the Looms of Stone

Which the Fates rule, and God.

Yea, we are labourers all;

Even as bees for man

Gather the honey from flowers,

So do we labour for God

Unwittingly. Yea, and the days

Bringeth to each his reward,

A final sleep and a peace.

Swiftly they pass, the days,

Winged with flame are their feet,

Devouring us and our kin,

As flame the stubble consumes.

But the grain is garnered, perchance,

In the great, wide barns of God,

Laid up in a golden heap,

As a wise king's treasury is

Heaped with the yellow gold.

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!

Creating, out of the dark,

This bright, and beautiful world

Again: and leading each day

As a bride to man, whence he

Begets him wonderful deeds.

And, surely, because thine hands

Lead us at last to peace,

Lovely thou art, O Dawn!