Morn is the Golden bird of Paradise,
Pearched upon the portals of Heaven.
And Eve a Blue heron,
Skimmping up from the Lake of Night.

Somewhere in the Heavens they pass,
Their wings lapping one o'er the other,
And the moment is exultant,
illumed !
And it is called Noon.

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O, night is a hunter with a silver trumpet to his lips;
The curving moon calling the stars.

O, when the first note is sounded,
behold,
One star comes forth and leaps the hurdle to the West,
And the pack follows.

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