CREATION MORN

An oily tide on a shining beach,
Then, out as far as the eye can reach,
The spaceless plain of waiting sea
And hush of glad expectancy,
Breathed from the gray, cool, sunless light
That weds the day with darkest night.
While out where ocean greets the sky,
A range of purple cloud-peaks lie,
That circle round the silent sea
And hide the glorious mystery
Of God's great secrets which the day
May bring to us, or bear away.
Then palest rose tints up the crest
Of some peaks more than all the rest,
And soon a single line of gold
Comes tracing them in etchings bold,
Till, lo; the ramparts disappear,
God's sun of righteousness is here.
Men's little ships sail out to sea
And from the depths, call back to me,
Who find in this day newly born
A glimpse of earth's creation morn.