X.

‘ Twas morn, and yet it was not morn; ‘ Twas morn in heaven, not on earth,— A star was singing of a birth, Just saying that a day was born.

The marsh hard by that bound the lake,— The great low sea-lake, Ponchartrain, Shut off from sultry Cuban main,— Drew up its legs, as half awake:

Drew long stork legs, long legs that steep In slime where alligators creep,— Drew long green legs that stir the grass, As when the late lorn night-winds pass.

Then from the marsh came croakings low, Then louder croaked some sea-marsh beast; Then, far away against the east, God's rose of morn began to grow.

From out the marsh, against that east, A ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; With ragged arms above the wood It rose, a God-forsaken beast.

It seemed so frightened where it rose! The moss-hung thing it seemed to wave The worn-out garments of the grave,— To wave and wave its old grave-clothes.

Close by, a cow rose up and lowed From out a palm-thatched milking-shed. A black boy on the river road Fled sudden, as the night had fled:

A nude black boy, a bit of night That had been broken off and lost From flying night, the time it crossed The surging river in its flight:

A bit of darkness, following The sable night on sable wing,— A bit of darkness stilled with fear, Because that nameless tomb was near.

Then holy bells came pealing out; Then steamboats blew, then horses neighed; Then smoke from hamlets round about Crept out, as if no more afraid.

Then shrill cocks here, and shrill cocks there, Stretched glossy necks and filled the air. How many cocks it takes to make A country morning well awake!

Then many boughs, with many birds,— Young boughs in green, old boughs in gray,— These birds had very much to say In their soft, sweet, familiar words.

And all seemed sudden glad; the gloom Forgot the church, forgot the tomb; And yet like monks with cross and bead The myrtles leaned to read and read.

And oh the fragrance of the sod! And oh the perfume of the air! The sweetness, sweetness everywhere, That rose like incense up to God!

I like a cow's breath in sweet spring, I like the breath of babes new-born; A maid's breath is a pleasant thing,— But oh the breath of sudden morn!

Of sudden morn, when every pore Of mother earth is pulsing fast With life, and life seems spilling o'er With love, with love too sweet to last:

Of sudden morn beneath the sun, By God's great river wrapped in gray, That for a space forgets to run, And hides his face as if to pray.