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DAWN
In Orient mystery
Thou veilest thee,
Pale daughter of the never-quenchéd Light,
Who from the couch of Night
By swift-ascending steeds to heaven art borne
Ere yet thy sister, Morn,
Awaiting, dons her wondrous vesture bright.
Like to a handmaid lowly, day by day
Thou dost prepare her way;
But when soft-trailing saffron and warm rose
Half hide and half disclose
Her glowing beauty rare,—
When living things her sweet breath quaff,
And lift their heads for joy of her, and laugh,
Thou art no longer there.
Yet, ah, there moments be,
Child of Hyperion, sacred to thee,
That dearer gifts confer;
When mortals lay before thy sun-lit shrine
A thankfulness of worship more divine
Than any offered her:
When, after night distressful spent—
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