The Forest Morn

I sometimes think that thus was born the world—
Not like a blinding sun from chaos hurled
To blaze and burn for ages—that it woke
As wakes the forest, wakes the verdant oak,
Breathing soft breezes, wreathed in lacy mist
Through which there burst the gleam of amethyst.

The forest morn! Across the night profound
Steals now the music of harmonious sound—
The bird's faint twitter, sleepy, sleepy still,
The bird's first carol, sweet, all sweet and shrill;
And down through branches, poured in generous streams,
Come tints of dawn, the colors of our dreams.