Classic Poem

The dawn is lonely for the sun,
—And chill and drear;
The one lone star is pale and wan
—As one in fear.

But when day strides across the hills,
—The warm blood rushes through
—The bared soft bosom of the blue
And all the glad east thrills.

Oh, come, my King! The hounds of joy
—Are waiting for thy horn
To chase the doe of heart's desire
—Across the heights of morn.
Oh, come, my Sun, and let me know
—The rapture of the day!
Oh, come, my love! Oh, come, my love!
—Thou art so long away!