Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Edith MatildaThomas1166 Thefts of the Morning
B
And of the winds that usher in the day!
Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars,
A netted snare before her footsteps lay;
Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown,
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
Most subtly guarded from her amorous stealth;
We nothing gathered, toiling year by year,
But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth;
Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her throne:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
Or bent the vines’ rich fruitage to our hands,
Or breathed deep song from out the laurels’ shade?
She drew them to her,—who can slack the bands?
What lure she used, what toils, was never known:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
Slain by the silver Archer of the sky,—
That Ilion’s prince amid her splendors wide
Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die;
Enough! but hark! Our captive loves make moan:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed.
A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold,
Through some high oriel window wreathed with cloud,
Or on the wind before her they are blown:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
That weave the misty vesture of the hills;
Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and blooms,
Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and thrills;
Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!
To where it merges in the western deep!
If aught of ours she, startled, should for sake,
Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep.
But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown:
Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!