WHILE all creation sang its hymn anew,
What could I do but sing a stave in tune?
Spectral on high hung pale the vanishing moon,
Where a last hint of stars hung paling too.
Lark's lay--a cockcrow--with a scattered few
Soft early chirpings,--with a tender croon
Of doves,--a hundred thousand calls, and soon
A hundred thousand answers, sweet and true.
These set me singing too at unawares:
One note for all delights and charities,
One note for hope reviving with the light,
Till while I sang my heart cast off its cares,
And revelled in the land of no more night.