The Summer dark is but the dawn of day.
The last of sunset grows into the morning,
The morning calls you from the dark away.
The holy mist, the white mist of the morning,
Was wreathing upward on my lonely way.
My way was waiting for your own adorning,
That should complete the broad adornéd day.
Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning;
The little eastern clouds are dapple-gray,
There will be wind among the leaves to-day;