HE said: "Awake my soul, and with the sun,". . . And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east, Where was emerging like a full-robed priest The irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done. It lit his face -- the weary face of one Who in the adjacent gardens charged his string, Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing, Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun. And then were threads of matin music spun In trial tones as he pursued his way: "This is a morn," he murmured, "well begun: This strain to Ken will count when I am clay!" And count it did; till, caught by echoing lyres, It spread to galleried naves and mighty quires. |