BENEATH the rooftree of the dark,
Like Noah shut within the ark,
I welcome from the waste of night
The earliest olive-branch of light.

Like Jacob, I my load of sleep
Cast off and see the angels creep,
Processional in bright array
Up the wide avenues of day;

See with Isaiah one who flies
From that high orient sacrifice,
Who, with a live coal in his hands
Touches to voice th' unpurgèd land.

Then swift from hazel copse and brake
The voices, voices, voices wake,
In twilight woods, in choirèd bush,
Antiphonal to the sweet thrush.

Like rain across the eastern hill
The dropping harmonies distil,
Or run upon the roseate sky
In silver bars of melody.

The notes upon the chorded air
Vibrate in thrilling pulse of prayer,
And on my heart responses win,
The harp without, the harp within.

Each morning on the walls of night
Unfolds the oriflamme of light.
Each morning westward with the sun,
A tide of song, the voices run;

A hint of that clear day of gold
The dewy morn has aye foretold,
When these fresh voices shall prolong
An everlasting morning-song.