Here in soft darkness where, the long watch thro’, Dreamless, my quiet garden slumbered well, Night’s soothing fingers, all adrip with dew, Crept in and out, to weave a mystic spell O’er wilting bud and bell; Now, with deft touches, deepening tints anew, Now lifting up some languid suppliant who Had wooed the sun too well. In the grey twilight tall trees seem to yawn And, waking, stretch their mighty limbs on high. A small bird cheeps; and, silver in the dawn, The jewelled wattles to a soft wind sigh Hard etched against the sky The timbered hill-tops stand forth boldly drawn . . . A sunbeam, laughing, trips across the lawn, And smiling day is nigh. The kindly offices of night are done. A grey thrush carols forth his morning hymn, Then proud, triumphant of a new day won, The magpie’s trumpet tops a lofty limb. By the pool’s mirrored brim The drowsing daisies open one by one: “Wake, brothers, wake! Here comes our lord, the Sun! Look up and worship him!”