THE coining Day flushed all the orient, And more and more the
purple dawnlight soard To radiant glory, as, Apollo trod, With
breeze-blown locks, the long Olynlpian slopes, His harp upon his
shoulders, as he came, Dashing away from him the diamond dews With
his swift feet, that seemd afire with haste And joy. But the
darkness on his brows Speaks but of pain and, were he not a God,
Those twin pearls in his eyes were unshed tears, and those pale
lips, that never yet had paled, Seem touchd as with a winter of
despair. And yet the odorous breezes rang the chords Of his gold
harp, as tho to waken up The heart of the high minstrel, and his
tongue To their wont use-the song, the morning song, The pzan,
which the sleep of Nature hears Even in its dreams and listens-and
the birds Under thc thickets sparkle forth a note, And then
another, till the woodlands seethe, Their green waves surging, a
melodious sea, With flooded music From the marble steeps......
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