There is no mist upon the deep blue sky,
And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms
Of crimson roses, in a holy rest.
How hallowed is the hour of morning! meet,
Aye, beautifully meet, for the pure prayer.
The patriarch standeth at his tented door,
With his white locks uncovered. ’Tis his wont
To gaze upon the gorgeous orient;
And at that hour the awful majesty
Of one who talketh often with his God,