⁠The weft of the night,
At the sound of the strings of the music of morning, falls
⁠dumb with delight.

⁠He gives forth his word,
⁠And the word that he saith,
⁠Ere well it be heard,
⁠Strikes darkness to death;
For the thought of his heart is the sunrise, and dawn as
⁠the sound of his breath.

⁠And the strength of its pulses
⁠That passion makes proud
⁠Confounds and convulses
⁠The depths of the cloud
Of the darkness that heaven was engirt with, divided and
⁠rent as a shroud,