Over hill and valley, flame, O king of morning,
Before thee in thy glory the hoary vapours scud,
Bring forth thy plunging coursers, the dewy meadows scorning,
And streak the gates of morning with foamflakes dashed with blood.

Over field and forest, blaze, O king of noontide,
Drive forth thy red-maned horses o'er all the fertile plain,
Make bounteous of fulfillment the promise of the Junetide,
That the fruit may round and ripen, and the garners teem with grain.

Over shore and sky-line, gleam, O king of even,
In the mystic, twilight ocean let thy burning axles sink,
Till the glow has died to dimness and the far light fades in heaven,
Where the chariot stays its journey and the steeds go down to drink.