"Dawn!" laughs the bow, and we straight see the sky,
Crimson, and golden, and gray,
See the rosy cloudlets go drifting by,
And the sheen on the lark as, soaring high,
He carols to greet the day.
Fast moves the bow o'er the wonderful strings -
We feel the joy in the air -
'Tis alive with the glory of growing things,
With wild honeysuckle that creeps and clings,
Rose of the briar bush - queen of the springs -
Anemones frail and fair!
We listen, and whisper with laughter low,
"It voices rare gladness, that ancient bow!"
Then, sad as the plaint of a child at night -
A child aweary with play -
The falling of shadows, a lost delight,
The moaning of watchers counting the flight
Of hours 'twixt the dark and day.
It echoes the cry of a broken heart,
It grieves o'er a "might have been,"
It holds all the passionate tears that start
When our heaven and our earth drift far apart,
And the way lies dark between.
It stills all our laughter, and whispers low -
'Tis heart-strings it plays on, that ancient bow!