WAKE: the silver dusk returning
Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
Strands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters
Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
Albert E. Housman
THERE is no solemnity so deep, to a right-thinking creature, as that of dawn.
WHAT is Nature? Art thou not the “Living Garment” of God? O Heavens, is it, in very deed, He then that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me? Sweeter than day-spring to the ship-wrecked in Nova Zembla; ah! like the mother’s voice to her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in unknown tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music to my too exasperated heart, came the Evangel. The Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house with spectres; but godlike, and my Father’s!