Dawn

IT is the dawn, that wondrous fateful hour Of strange desires, of thoughts and deeds that stir Within the womb of possibility. A wind new-wakened combs the silken sea, Lifting the foam like some unearthly flower. The lights still glimmer all along the quay: And overhead a flight of hurried stars Seek hiding swiftly, e’er the day shall be. Ships pass like spectres, little white-sailed ships, Gliding away towards their destiny. The earth, expectant, seems to thrill and wait For some loved being; through the eastern gate Red clouds come floating. Oh! that I were day, Resplendent, bountiful, a heaven-born fire, Filled with the glory of my own desire, And thou, the trembling earth awaiting me!