The Trumpet of the Dawn

Above the crestward-climbing pines, Above the dewy slopes of lawn, Above the copse’s coil of vines, I have gone up to meet the dawn. I have grown weary of the night That from day’s gold mine eye debars,⁠— Of seeing up the purple height Troop the processional of stars. I yearn to mark the shattering beam Backward the gates of darkness throw; I long to hear across my dream The wakening trump of morning blow. Hark! ’tis the first bird-note!—and mark, Flushing the east, a crimson ray!⁠— Soul, from the girdling wastes of dark Go thou, too, up to meet the day!