[from Collected Works, T.E.Brown]
EASTWARD the valley of my soul was lit
This morning : now the West hath laid
Upon its fields the festal robe,
And East hath shade.
Full soon the night shall fit
Her star-besprinkled serge
On hill, and rock, and bay;
But even then behind the mounting globe
God makes a verge
Of dawn that shall be day.