I pray you, what ’s asleep? The lily-pads, and riffles, and the reeds; No longer inward do the waters creep, No longer outwardly their force recedes, And widowed Night, in blackness wide and deep, Resumes her weeds. I pray you, what ’s awake? A host of stars, the long, long milky way That stretches out, a glistening silver flake, All glorious beneath the moon’s cold ray, And myriad reflections on the lake Where star-gleams lay. I pray you, what ’s astir? Why, naught but rustling leaves, dry, sere, and brown: The East’s broad gates are yet a dusky blur, And star-gems twinkle in fair Luna’s crown, And minor chords of wailing winds that were Die slowly down. I pray you, what ’s o’clock? Nay! who shall answer that but gray-stoled dawn? See, how from out the shadows looms yon rock, Like some great figure on a canvas drawn; And heard you not the crowing of the cock? The night is gone.
As the Day Breaks
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