The faint magenta flush of dawn had turned To rose and painted, like a butterfly, One ragged cloud that crept along nearby A mist-hung waterfall -- stone-edged and ferned. Within a sleeping pool, one light still burned: The morning star -- lone watcher of the sky, That calmly looked on with a winkless eye As fear-filled shadows were at last interned. When golden shafts of rising day sank deep Into the cabalistic shades of night, The darkness passed like dreams of fevered sleep And left the firmament as blue and bright As though a rolling awe-imposing heap Of silhouettes had never paused in flight. |