II.

Dip, drip, in and out The rhythmic oars move slowly, Mist-kissed, round about The pale sky reddens wholly; Chill, still, through waxing light Mystical and tender, Morn, born of starlit night, Clothes herself with splendour.

Rose-glows in eastern sky, In the north faint flushes; Boat, float idly by Past the sedge and rushes! Here, near the willow screen River-gods bathe gaily; White, bright against the green, Poets see them daily.

See, we, we alone Greet this fresh sun-waking, Too few, who hail day done, See it in the making! Sad, glad, we two see Dawn the earth adorning, Sigh: "Why can no noon be Worth so gold a morning?"