There's a morn demon. He's of gauze and light,
The happy one - with golden hair.
Like skies, is blue his tunic's airy flood,
All - in a play of brilliants, fair.

But like through azures sometimes look dark nights,
Thus through his face sometimes looks something horrid,
Something dark-red - through his curls' shining gold,
Through his soft voice - forgotten tempests' blasts.