Till I wove him a vest, for his Ethiop breast,
Of the threads of my golden hair;
And when the broad tent of the firmament
Arose on its airy spars,
I pencil'd the hue of its matchless blue,
And spangled it round with the stars.
I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers,
The birds in their chambers of green,
And mountains and plain glow with beauty again
As they bask in my matinal sheen.