John Hunter

THE FIRST low fluttering breath of wakening Day

Stirs the wide air. Thin clouds of pearly haze

Float slowly o’er the sky, to meet the rays

Of the unrisen sun,—whose faint beams play

Among the drooping stars, kissing away

Their waning eyes to slumber. From the gaze,

Like snow-wreath at approach of vernal days,

The moon’s pale circlet melts into the gray.

Glad Ocean quivers to the gentle gleams

Of rosy light that touch his glorious brow,

And murmurs joy with all his thousand streams;

And Earth’s fair face is mantling with a glow,

Like youthful Beauty’s, in its changeful hue,

When slumbers, rich with dreams, are bidding her adieu.