Chapter I

One looks into the sun lawn, and the steep
Curved slopes of hills, set sharp against the sky,
With tufted woods encinctured, waving high
O'er vales below, where broken shadows sleep.
Here, looking forth before the first faint cry
Of mother-bird, fluttering a drowsy wing
Above her brood, awakes the full-voiced choir,
Ere yet the morning tips the hills with fire,
And turns the drapery of the east to gold,
My wondering eyes the opening heavens behold,
Where far within deep calleth unto deep,
And the whole world stands hushed and worshipping.
Even thus,--I muse,--shall heaven's gates unfold,
When earth beholds the coming of her King.