English

Daybreak upon the hills!
Slowly, behind the midnight murk and trail
Of the long storm, light brightens, pure and pale,
And the horizon fills.

Not bearing swift release, —
Not with quick feet of triumph, but with tread
August and solemn, following her dead,
Cometh, at last, our Peace.

Over thick graves grown green,
Over pale bones that graveless lie and bleach,
Over torn human hearts her path doth reach,
And Heaven's dear pity lean.

O angel sweet and grand!

(English version by Louis Untermeyer)

1

The day that my dear came to us,
The flow'rs were a-borning too;
The day that my dear came to us,
The nightingales trilled their songs.

Refrain:
Sunrise is coming, is coming,
The sun has seen us, my dear,
Arise, my little friend,
Look, day-light is here.

2

If I were a yellow sunray
I'd sparkle about your head

Day of wrath, that day of burning,
Seer and Sibyl speak concerning,
All the world to ashes turning.

Oh, what fear shall it engender,
When the Judge shall come in splendor,
Strict to mark and just to render!

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder,
Rending sepulchres asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

All aghast then Death shall shiver,
And great Nature's frame shall quiver,
When the graves their dead deliver.

Volume, from which nothing's blotted,
Evil done nor evil plotted,

Day of glory! Welcome day!
Freedom's banners greet thy ray;
See! how cheerfully they play
With thy morning breeze,
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled.
On the heights where squadrons wheeled,
When a tyrant's thunder pealed
O'er the trembling seas.

God of armies! did thy stars
On their courses smite his cars;
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars
From the heaving tide?
On our standard, lo! they burn,
And, when days like this return,
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn
Who for freedom died.

The day is past and gone
The evening shades appear;
O may we all remember well,
The night of death is near.

We lay our garments by,
Upon our beds to rest;
So death will soon disrobe us all
Of what we here possess.

Lord, keep us safe this night,
Secure from all our fears;
May angels guard us while we sleep,
Till morning light appears.

And when we early rise,
And view th'unwearied sun,
May we set out to win the prize,
And after glory run.

And when our days are past,

The day is o'er and twilight's shade,
Is darkening forest, glen and glade;
It steals within the old church door,
And casts its shadows on the floor;
It throws its gloom upon the bride,
And on her partner by her side:
But ah! it has no power to screen
The loveliest form that e'er was seen.

Sweet tones as from the angels' lyre,
Came pealing from the ancient choir;
They rouse the brain with magic power,
And fill with light that twilight hour.
Some artist's soul one easily sees,

The day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,--
A good and regular meal--
That shall soothe this restless feeling,

If Miss Edna St. Vincent Millay had written Mr. Longfellow's " The Rainy Day. "

The day is dark and dreary;
Denuded is the tree;
The wind is never weary —
But oh, you are of me!

I ponder on the present;
You muse upon the past.
And love is only pleasant
Because it cannot last.

Still, heart! and cease your aching;
The world is rich in rhymes,
And hearts can stand a breaking
About a billion times.

If Mr. H. W. Longfellow had written Miss Millay's

Day is again begun
By the unresting sun:
Morning o'er all the lands
Rises with clasped hands:
And in the increasing light
Sickens the Moon of night:
For darkness leaves her there
To linger pale and bare,
Till fullest light, more kind,
From View her form shall wind.
But in this rising morn
Muse not on things forlorn,
Knowing thyself the thrall
Of life beyond them all
Another day shall pass
Like yesterday that was;
Another night shall come,
Like the last perished gloom:

DAY BY DAY the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber wrought;
Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his thought,

Till at last the work was ended; and no organ-voice so grand
Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride,
Who in God's sight were well pleasing, in the church stood side by side

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play,
And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.