Dawn.
By Jean Blewett
I cannot echo the old wish to die at morn, as darkness strays!
We have been glad together greeting some new-born radiant days,
The earth would hold me, every day familiar things
Would weigh me fast,
The stir, the touch of morn, the bird that on swift wings
Goes flitting past.
Some flower would lift to me its tender tear-wet face, and send its breath
To whisper of the earth, its beauty and its grace,
And combat death.
It would be light, and I would see in thy dear eyes
The sorrow grow.
Love, could I lift my own, undimmed, to paradise
And leave thee so!
A thousand cords would hold me down to this low sphere,
When thou didst grieve;
Ah! should death come upon morn's rosy breast, I fear
I'd crave reprieve.
But when, her gold all spent, the sad day takes her flight,
When shadows creep,
Then just to put my hand in thine and say, "Good-night,"
And fall asleep.