This grassy gorge, as daylight failed last night, I traversed toward the west, where, thin and young; Bent like Diana's bow and silver bright, Half lost in rosy haze, a crescent hung.
I paused upon the beach's upper edge: The violet east all shadowy lay behind; Southward the light-house glittered o'er the ledge, And lightly, softly blew the western wind.
And at my feet, between the turf and stone, Wild roses, bayberry, purple thistles tall, And pink herb-robert grew, where shells were strown, And morning-glory vines climbed over all.
I stooped the closely folded buds to note, That gleamed in the dim light mysteriously, While full of whispers of the far off rote, Summer's enchanted dusk crept o'er the sea.
And sights and sounds and sea-scents delicate, So wrought upon my soul with sense of bliss, Happy I sat as if at heaven's gate, Asking on earth no greater joy than this.
And now, at dawn, upon the beach again, Kneeling I wait the coming of the sun, Watching the looser-folded buds, and fain To see the marvel of their day begun.
All the world lies so dewy-fresh and still! Whispers so gently all the water wide, Hardly it breaks the silence: from the hill Come clear bird-voices mingling with the tide.
Sunset or dawn: which is the lovelier? Lo! My darlings, sung to all the balmy night By summer waves and softest winds that blow, Begin to feel the thrilling of the light!
Red lips of roses waiting to be kissed By early sunshine, soon in smiles will break. But O, ye morning-glories, that keep tryst With the first ray of day-break, ye awake!
O bells of triumph, ringing noiseless peals Of unimagined music to the day! Almost I could believe each blossom feels The same delight that sweeps my soul away.
O bells of triumph! delicate trumpets, thrown Heavenward and earthward, turned east, west, north, south, In lavish beauty, who through you has blown This sweet cheer of the morning with calm mouth?
'Tis God who breathes the triumph; He who wrought The tender curves, and laid the tints divine Along the lovely lines; the Eternal Thought That troubles all our lives with wise design.
Yea, out of pain and death his beauty springs, And out of doubt a deathless confidence: Though we are shod with leaden cares, our wings Shall lift us yet out of our deep suspense!
Thou great Creator! Pardon us who reach For other heaven beyond this world of thine, This matchless world, where thy least touch doth teach Thy solemn lessons clearly, line on line.
And help us to be grateful, we who live Such sordid, fretful lives of discontent, Nor see the sunshine nor the flower, nor strive To find the love thy bitter chastening meant.
