Grey dawn on the sand-hills—the night wind has drifted All night from the rollers a scent of the sea; With the dawn the grey fog his battalions has lifted, At the call of the morning they scatter and flee.
Like mariners calling the roll of their number The sea-fowl put out to the infinite deep. And far over-head—sinking softly to slumber— Worn out by their watching, the stars fall asleep.
To eastward, where resteth the dome of the skies on The sea-line, stirs softly the curtain of night; And far from behind the enshrouded horizon Comes the voice of a God saying “Let there be light.”
And lo, there is light! Evanescent and tender, It glows ruby-red where 'twas now ashen-grey; And purple and scarlet and gold in its splendour— Behold, 'tis that marvel, the birth of a day!