THE BOON
At break of day when shadows fly
And still the earth is white with dew,
When light soft mists on hillside lie
And, stirring purple meadows thro',
The morning wind moves like a sigh,
Oh I awake then quietly!
Earth's sullied things draw never nigh
When thus the day from God is new
And from a dim far place on high
On the chaste line of day and night
Where holy thoughts the souls imbue
Who wake, praise God, keep pure, walk right
A boon comes . . . is 't not blest that I
Walk thus thro' fields of God with you
At break of day when shadows fly?
And still the earth is white with dew,
When light soft mists on hillside lie
And, stirring purple meadows thro',
The morning wind moves like a sigh,
Oh I awake then quietly!
Earth's sullied things draw never nigh
When thus the day from God is new
And from a dim far place on high
On the chaste line of day and night
Where holy thoughts the souls imbue
Who wake, praise God, keep pure, walk right
A boon comes . . . is 't not blest that I
Walk thus thro' fields of God with you
At break of day when shadows fly?
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