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Dawn after dawn, I, sleepless, wait the first faint flushes, Then, as the cloud-gates of the East unfold, Over the world the red flood of the sunrise rushes That leaves me white and cold.
Heaven in her pity rains her tender tears upon me, Me,—who shall never bud nor bloom again, There is no quickening in the sunshine lavished on me, The dew drops all in vain.
Shattered by lightning, tempest-tossed, and torn, and broken, Storms had no power to shake me till this last, When, at the coming of the White Man, doom was spoken,— Now live I in the Past!
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