The gray dawn crept through the weeping wood,
The clouds set sail and all was still;
With a breast of gold the fair morn stood
Above the firs of the eastern hill.
The waters slept and the raindrops clung
Like shimmering pearls to the maple tree;
The sky was clear and the brown birds flung
Sweet showers of crystal melody.
A splintered mast and a tattered sail
Lay out in the sun on the hard brown sands