Page:Hymns of the Marshes.djvu/49

 Ere with the sun their souls exhale away.

Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew

The summ'd morn shines complete as in the blue

Big dew-drop of all heaven; with these lit shrines

O'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines,

The sacramental marsh one pious plain

Of worship lies. Peace to the ante-reign

Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild,

Minded of nought but peace, and of a child.

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure

Of motion,—not faster than dateless Olympian leisure

Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to pleasure,—

The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling,

Forever revealing, revealing, revealing,

Edgewise, bladewise, halfwise, wholewise,—'tis done!

Good-morrow, lord Sun!

With several voice, with ascription one,