Hark, how the dawn's first rise
blesses the crowned boughs of trees-
bows to the wind as it sweeps and sighs
bestowing whispers 'pon luxurious leaves-

Hark- the day's first rosy touch
anoints anew the auspices of sleep,
and twinkles like to bright motes 'pon dun dust-
adorning sands where wee jerboas leap-

Hark- the stained-glass craze of the canopy
sunlight piercing spearlike to the shade-
an advancing prism's panoply-
not merely green, but a wild and riotous blaze-

Think- can you not gaze at shades and see
the origin of light which mothered them?-
this huelessness might speak of what could be-
that is, if shadow might be given end.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 24th of Dharos, in the year 17 AC.