There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand
Bearing the wreath of beauty silently to crown the earth.
And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows
Deserted by herds, through trackless paths
Carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher
From the Western ocean of rest.
Rabindranath Tagore.
Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim day boils at last;