THE BIRTH OF DAY by A. F. W. (Manchester, N. H.)

FROM the darkness, O Eternal One, From the pale light of diamond stars, From the quietude of dreamless night, Into the grayness and the formless mist, Comes the first whisper, the first murmur Of Life awakening. Merges then the dim outline and the shadow, Floating nothings, pregnant with the promise Of the coming birth of Morning. Gradually, slowly, silently, The shapes resolve themselves And grow less misty and more huge; The grayness becomes less gray; And, as it so becomes, the horizon Erstwhile faint and indistinct, Slowly as a line appears, not sharp, But blended with both earth and sky. A sleepy twitter from the birds, the first call Of mate to mate; the faint, soft rustle Of the leaves, the vapor rising from the earth— All betoken the oncoming. The ghostly outlines of the forms Are clearer now; and the vivid streamers Of the eastern sky change to the white light Of the advancing Morn. Now approach the fuller tones of nature: Insistent the notes of the tiny feathered ones, And from the nests and branches come The piping calls to morning quest. Now the silver white takes on the faint Tinging of the purple glow. The purple to a blue transforms itself; The gnomes of dawn are hard at work Transmuting the base metal into finer gold. As distant fire, urging on the horses of wild Fear Mounts higher and more high, So Apollo urges on his horses, and the golden gleam Of his chariot heralds itself To follow after. The horizon blazes with the power of Light— More red and fiery grows the hue; A point appears, a rim, an arc Of coppery luster; then Glowing with the radiance of the parent Life The Sun!—And Day is born.