THE FOURTH DAY

By Francis Sherman

As when the tideless, barren waters lay

About the borders of the early earth;

And small, unopened buds dreamt not the worth

Of their incomparable gold array;

And tall young hemlocks were not set a-sway

By any wind; and orchards knew no mirth

At Autumn time, nor plenteousness from dearth;

And night and morning, then, were the first day,

— Even so was I. Yet, as I slept last night,

My soul surged towards thy love's controlling power;

And, quickened now with the sun's splendid might,

Breaks into unimaginable flower,

Knowing thy soul knows this for beacon-light —

The culmination of the harvest hour.