A FRESH breeze wakes over land and sea
With the dawning of day;
A trouble, a travail, a newness beginning to be
As the mists roll away;
And the young God, his pennons glancing with roseate light,
Routs the cohorts of Night.

And the dark shadows curdle and then grow gray,
Then a sound as of wings
Divides the thin gloom as it melts and is hurried away;
Some sentinel sings,
And, proud with the conqueror's pride for the victory won,
Forth issues the sun.