by Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)
How fair it comes, the wonderful hour
When nature from sleep awakes,
And over the face of the earth at last
A newborn gladness breaks!
The stars grow pale in the shadowy sky,
And over the mountains creep
The mists that are part of the waking world,
And part of the earth's sweet sleep.
The restless birds in the tree-tops high
Are shaking their wings at last,
And chirp, and twitter their songs of praise,
As the dawn comes on so fast.
But who can tell of the wondrous charm,
When over the distant hills
The day's bright king in his glory comes
And the earth with radiance fills?
Now scatter, ye mists, from the mountain-side,
And die in the sky's soft blue;
For the dawn has passed, and the day is here,
With its light and joy so true.