Weird Night has withdrawn
Her gleaming black tresses,
And, sighing for sorrow,
Has fled from the dawn,
Sinking her sleep-woven wings in the west,
To breathe there her kisses
On tired hearts that borrow
Her balm of sweet lethe and rest.

And Morning, upspringing
From out the gray ocean
With rosy-lipped laughter,
Her yellow locks flinging
O'er forest and fountain, field, fallow, and sky,
With breezy, bright motion,
Is hastening after,
While vapor-veiled glamours sail by.