Poet in the Desert, The - Part 37
The feet of Dawn are before the gates
Of Morning and the East is listening.
The joyful lark salutes his footsteps.
On the tip of a sage-brush a warbler prays,
Undismayed in the bigness
Nor oppressed by the great solitude,
A little acolyte, in grey robes,
Topping the world with song.
He, too, salutes the Golden One,
Who casts off suddenly his diaphanous mantle
And, tossing high in air his necklace of jewels,
Fills the sky with golden banners
And shoots his fiery arrows to the zenith.
He sets the Universe ablaze, so that
The world is melted in a golden crucible.
And the Sky cries out in ecstasy,
" The Sun has come,
" The Sun. The Sun. "
Of Morning and the East is listening.
The joyful lark salutes his footsteps.
On the tip of a sage-brush a warbler prays,
Undismayed in the bigness
Nor oppressed by the great solitude,
A little acolyte, in grey robes,
Topping the world with song.
He, too, salutes the Golden One,
Who casts off suddenly his diaphanous mantle
And, tossing high in air his necklace of jewels,
Fills the sky with golden banners
And shoots his fiery arrows to the zenith.
He sets the Universe ablaze, so that
The world is melted in a golden crucible.
And the Sky cries out in ecstasy,
" The Sun has come,
" The Sun. The Sun. "
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