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Nativity of a Day
Morn, nay, premorning, in the temples of the sun,
To walk among its courtyards and its silent halls,
Or stand beneath its arches with their solemn frown;
And drink it in, the beauty that was not of Solomon,
When down the peaceful corridors, a gentle wind
Will stroll to run its chilling fingers o’er my cheek,
Or picking up a russet coloured leaf, will play
With it, until it tires of such a thing, and leave it,
Suspended in mid air, to flutter by itself to mother earth.
And then the wind is gone, and through the open portals
Drives the Lord Apollo in his brazen chariot of flame,
To light the earth and warm the viscous bloods in parent vein.
To send the blinking night beast and the owl
Back to their sheltered hole in tree or roof of cave, to sleep.