Matins.

Gray earth, gray mist, gray sky:     Through vapors hurrying by,     Larger than wont, on high         Floats the horned, yellow moon.     Chill airs are faintly stirred,     And far away is heard,     Of some fresh-awakened bird,         The querulous, shrill tune.     The dark mist hides the face     Of the dim land: no trace     Of rock or river's place         In the thick air is drawn;     But dripping grass smells sweet,     And rustling branches meet,     And sounding water greet         The slow, sure, sacred dawn.     Past is the long black night,     With its keen lightnings white,     Thunder and floods: new light         The glimmering low east streaks.     The dense clouds part: between     Their jagged rents are seen     Pale reaches blue and green,         As the mirk curtain breaks.     Above the shadowy world,     Still more and more unfurled,     The gathered mists upcurled         Like phantoms melt and pass.     In clear-obscure revealed,     Brown wood, gray stream, dark field:     Fresh, healthy odors yield         Wet furrows, flowers, and grass.     The sudden, splendid gleam     Of one thin, golden beam     Shoots from the feathered rim         Of yon hill crowned with woods.     Down its embowered side,     As living waters slide,     So the great morning tide         Follows in sunny floods.     From bush and hedge and tree     Joy, unrestrained and free,     Breaks forth in melody,         Twitter and chirp and song:     Alive the festal air     With gauze-winged creatures fair,     That flicker everywhere,         Dart, poise, and flash along.     The shining mists are gone,     Slight films of gold swift-blown     Before the strong, bright sun         Or the deep-colored sky:     A world of life and glow     Sparkles and basks below,     Where the soft meads a-row,         Hoary with dew-fall, lie.     Does not the morn break thus,     Swift, bright, victorious,     With new skies cleared for us,         Over the soul storm-tost?     Her night was long and deep,     Strange visions vexed her sleep,     Strange sorrows bade her weep:         Her faith in dawn was lost.     No halt, no rest for her,     The immortal wanderer     From sphere to higher sphere,         Toward the pure source of day.     The new light shames her fears,     Her faithlessness, her tears,     As the new sun appears         To light her godlike way.