Then,—Day!—with her bright chaplet’s rosy braid, 55
In all her living hues of light arrayed,
Comes fresh o’er the green heath, and shakes the dew
From her light sandall’d foot, whose blushing hue
Seems as she trod on roses.—And, at eve,
With ling’ring steps, as weary pilgrims leave 60
The shrine they love, calm sinks the sun’s last ray,
And dovelike silence soothes the wearied day;
And Time’s swift sand in noiseless current flows,
There is nought here to break the still repose.—