Morning

When I behold how out of ruined night Filled with all weirds of haunted ancientness, And dreams and phantasies of pale distress, Is builded, beam by beam, the splendid light, The opalescent glory, gem bedight, Of dew-emblazoned morning; when I know Such wondrous hopes, such luminous beauties grow From out earth’s shades of sadness and affright; O, then, my heart, amid thy questioning fear, Dost thou not whisper: “He who buildeth thus From wrecks of dark such wonders at his will, Can re-create from out death’s night for us The marvels of a morning gladder still Than ever trembled into beauty here?”