The Morning arose,
She was pillow'd on snows,
And kerchief'd in wind and storm;
And she dallied with Night
Till Hyperion's light
Had struggled abroad thro' her form.

The Noon came forth
On the breeze of the north,
All silent and bleak and chill;
And he watch'd the streak
Of the Spring's young cheek
As she peep'd o'er the western hill.

Then Evening's eye
Look'd out from the sky
On the mirror of Ocean's wave;
Like an island of light
Whose margin bright
Heaven's ripples of emerald lave.