Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/172



N Orient mystery

Thou veilest thee,

Pale daughter of the never-quenchèd Light,

Who from the couch of Night

By swift-ascending steeds to heaven art borne

Ere yet thy sister, Morn,

Awaking, dons her wondrous vesture bright.

Like to a handmaid lowly, day by day

Thou dost prepare her way;

But when soft-trailing saffron and warm rose

Half hide and half disclose

Her glowing beauty rare,—

When living things her sweet breath quaff,

And lift their heads for joy of her, and laugh,

Thou art no longer there.

Yet, hours there be,

Child of Hyperion, sacred to thee,

That dearer gifts confer;

When mortals lay before thy dim-lit shrine

A thankfulness of worship more divine

Than any offered her: