Slowly the pale feet of morning...

Slowly the pale feet of morning

Tread out the ashes of midnight still burning with feverous lamplight,

Colourless, cold, as the rainclad

Sleep-drugged river that carries the wreckage of cities out sea-ward.

Slowly the fingers of dawn-light

Snuff out the candles that yearned to those Gods of delirium,

Sleep-huge as shadows grimacing

From niches made black with the smoke of a fire-spangled passion.

Smoothly the wild hair of darkness

Is plaited for rest, and the faces of visions are covered with sleep veils.

Patiently, Morning, the priestess

Drones out a psalm for the souls that we damned in the blackness,

Gashed with the daggers of street-lights,

Crushing the poisonous berries of sinister kisses,—

Morning with healing and kindness

Folds up the dresses dishevelled with terror and laughter,

Sweeps up the rags of our shadows

That danced in a red smoke of dreams on the walls of oblivion.