The hills exulted at the Morning's birth,—
And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run
Before a king to say the fight is won.
The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth
Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth,
To celebrate the rising of the sun.
IX.
And when the soaring lark had done its prayer,
The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue
Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two,