EVERY morning dies the sun
On the eastern horizon,
And a blazing god is born
From the white egg of the morn.

Then the chorus that saluted
Rosy-fingered dawn is muted,
And the spirits of the earth
Shrink beneath that fiery birth.

Underneath the green they lie
Where a water-brook goes by;
In a cowslip or, in turn,
Couched below a fragrant fern.

You shall find them in the shadow
Where the woodside meets the meadow;
Lift the arum, they are there
Breathing some cool well of air;

Waiting in the hopeful grass
Till the fiery day shall pass,
Till the flame is laid to rest
On the red hearse of the west.