Risest thou thus, dim dawn again,
⁠So loud with voices of the birds,
⁠So thick with lowings of the herds,
Day, when I lost the flower of men;

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red
⁠On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
⁠By meadows breathing of the past,
And woodlands holy to the dead;

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
⁠A song that slights the coming care,
⁠And Autumn laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
⁠To myriads on the genial earth,
⁠Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And unto myriads mere, of death.