From out the morning, at the earliest tide,
He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried
Lest the dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,
The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud
And tinted soft by lingering night;
And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;
The lily’s satin cheek, and dove cooes,
And wild bird song, and Death himself
Is called to offer of himself;
And soft as willow buds may be,