When night by custom must recess to nether parts the globe,
and yield its stilling hold on life to rustles of the dawn,
I keep the cock-crowed watch and wait that eye and ear may probe,
to witness how the courses shift and what the amber shafts will spawn.
The blossom petals hold the dew like children whose mothers they do dandle,
and sprouting fields awake for wash by springs from hugging vapors;
melted frost turned morning mist is spersed o'er foot and sandal,
as nature spreads across the tabled grass its sheets of liquid papers.
Heaven's golden emperor, still crimsoned in bed-dress,
ascends from slumber's chamber by degree to skyward-steppéd throne,
and in this other half his realm proceeds to rule and bless,
where eager stretches branch and blade to him and him alone.
Eased to cycled consciousness with the planet's turn and yawn,
all creatures of the soil and sky by mystic muse are guided,
and bustle to their industries like bees to flowers drawn,
as out the matrix of the morn springs day and from the dark's divided.
Morning glory mild with whispered song and glee,
stirs the sleeping motions as min'string maid and nurse,
and in the delta energies that flood like tidal sea,
what laid by twilight's banishment beneath the sable curse,
escapes the even's prison and slips from irons free,
to better be by day's renewal than what the night made worse.