Poems (Bushnell)/The New Day
For works with similar titles, see The New Day.
XXIIITHE NEW DAY
Silent has been the night, and O, so long! With weary moon forever sailing west;Save that a bird at midnight trilled a song, A dream of daylight, from his moonlit nest.
The hills lay couched in slumber, range on range, The earth was floating in a silver web,—That mystery of calm before a change, That lull of waters at the lowest ebb.
Some drowsy notes were all the bird could sing, Soft as the scattered drops of summer dew;Then, hushed within the quiet of his wing, He sang no more; but now the dream comes true.
A thrill runs through the spaces of the night, And flutters on the wavy eastern line;Beyond the stars dilates a distant light, The luminous outflow of a day divine.
With slow approach it deepens into bloom, Faint jasmine yellow, with a flush of rose;And, brightening till it makes the stars a gloom, O'er all the long uncertainty it flows.
What though the perfect day is yet unborn! Sweet were the carolled vision of the bird; Glad are the tidal colors of the mom, And heaven is pledged without a single word.
The waves of light are breaking on the shore, Pulsing in cadence to a mightier flow—The strong uplift of nobler hopes before, The great new future rising in the glow.
Above the hills surges the day at last, The longed-for day, effulgent, high and wide. Turn, turn, gray earth, and leave the darkened past, And swing thyself upon the incoming tide!