I

Oh, cool as the flutter of fountains, And fresh as the fall of the dew, Wet as the hues of the rain-arch, In that vale, is the dawn, when, o'er mountains, Pearl-peaked and hyaline blue, Through the Memnonian blue, Her spirit, like music, comes slowly, A music of light and of fire, Leaving her footsteps in roses There on its summits, while holy, Fair on her brow is her tire, Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.