It is not day, and yet the night is gone,
Look eastward—see! that is not black, but gray—
Cold gray, hard gray, dark gray; and yet if one
Watches it, cold and hard, he hopes for day.
Whiter and whiter—see, the night is done!
The stars are frightened, and they pale away.
Color that—Color? Yes, 'neath Procyon,
See the soft tinge, as new as it is old,
The nameless yellow of which Homer told,
And then, as those weird curtains are unrolled,
Cloud mixed with cloud, fold entangled in with fold,
That "faint, peculiar tint of yellow green,"
And there, the scarlet of the rays between—
Scarlet—no! crimson, flashing into gold,
One sea of gold, and then the sun! the sun!
