I

There is a song the wet leaves lisp When Morn comes down the woodland way; And misty as a thistle-wisp Her gown gleams, windy gray: A song that seems to say, “Awake! ’tis day!”

There is a sigh when Day sits down Beside the sunlight-lulled lagoon; While on her glistening hair and gown The rose of rest is strew: A sigh, that seems to croon, “Come rest! ’tis noon!”

There is a whisper when the stars, Above an evening-purpled height, Crown the dead Day with nenuphars Of fire, gold and white: A voice, that seems t’ invite, “Come love! ’tis night!”