I.

Straggling through the winter sky, What is this that begs the eye? More than pauper by its state, Less than prince its bashful gait.

'Tis the soul in sun's disguise, Child of Reason's enterprise; Through earth's weather seeks its kin, Begs the sun-like take it in.

Thus from purpling heaven bid, Open flies the double lid; To the palace-steps repair Souls awakened, foul or fair;

Heavy with a maudlin sleep, Blithesome from a vision deep, Flying westward with the night, Eastward to renew their plight.

At this menace of the dawn Dreams the helm of Thought put on; All my heart its fresco high Paints against the morning sky.