Before your light quite fail,
Already paling star,
(The quail
Sings in the thyme afar!)

Turn on the poet's eyes
That love makes overrun-
(See rise
The lark to meet the sun!)

Your glance, that presently
Must drown in the blue morn;
(What glee
Amid the rustling corn!)

Then flash my message true
Down yonder,-far away!-
(The dew
Lies sparkling on the hay.)

Across what visions seek
The Dear One slumbering still.
(Quick, quick!
The sun has reached the hill!)