The Break of Day

The stars are pale. Old is the Night, his case is grievous, His strength doth fail.

Through stilly hours The dews have draped with love's old lavishness The drowsy flowers.

And Night shall die. Already, lo, the Morn's first ecstasies Across the sky.

An evil time is done. Again, as some one lost in a quaint parable, Comes up the Sun.