O glad vision in the dawn:
My spirit over the faint cool water glides,
Child of the day,
To thee:
And thou art drawn
By kindred impulse over silver tides
The dreamy way
To me.

I need thy hands, O gentle wonder-child,
For they are moulded unto all repose,
Thy lips are frail,
And thou art cooler than an April rose;
White are thy words and mild:
Child of the morning, hail!

Breathe thus upon mine eyelids - that we twain
May build the day together out of dreams.
Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems
Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain.
I cannot live, except as I may be
Compelled for love of thee.
O let us drift,
Frail as the floating silver of a star,
Or like the summer humming of a bee,
Or stream-reflected sunlight through a rift.

I will not hope, because I know, alas,
Morning will glide, and noon, and then the night
will take thee from me. Everything must pass
Swiftly - but nought so swift as dawn-delight.
If I could hold thee till the day,
Is broad on sea and hill,
Child of repose,
What god can say,
What dream thou mightest not in me fulfil?

O glad vision in the dawn:
My spirit over faint cool water glides,
Child of the day,
To thee:
And thou art drawn
By kindred impulse over silver tides
The dreamy way
To me.