George Cabot Lodge — Dawn

The swoon of night’s delicate whisper, the tense wide still- ness of birth, The holy awaiting of sound in the sould of the slumberous earth, The peace compelling our tears for the shame of the agon- ized flesh, Ere creation has riven its grave-clothes and come on the world afresh. The dawn that doth come like a song aflame on the lips of the world, The grasses’ hymn to the dew, and the resonant wave that is hurled From the reticent soul of the waters, and about the death- bed of night Resurrection pulsating like music, and the heavens enor- mous with light. Dear God! how the pulses beat faster, as, lo! With the rush of a wind, From the labyrinth caves of our slumber we feel we have brought forth a mind; And the shock as the shock of battle, when our vision rends the veil As the sun swims in blood on the waters; - ‘tis the Life of Our life doth prevail! The exquisite fabric of mourning, too pure for the spoken word, From the cedar-tree woven with twilight has uttered the song of a bird, ‘Tis the wild, pure paean of pity, ever new since the world began, ‘Tis the sadness fragant with promise-a day that is given to Man!