Dawns of the world, how I have known you all,
so many, and so varied, and the same!
dawns o’er the timid plains, or in the folds
of the arm’d hills, or by the unsleeping shore;
a chill touch on the chill flesh of the dark
that, shuddering, shrinks from its couch, and leaves
a homeless light, staring, disconsolate,
on the drear world it knows too well, the world
it fled and finds again, its wistful hope
unmet by any miracle of night,
that mocks it rather, with its shreds that hang
about the woods and huddled bulks of gloom
that crouch, malicious, in the broken combes,
witness to foulnesses else unreveal’d
that visit earth and violate her dreams
in the lone hours when only evil wakes.
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