The Rose of Dawn - Helen Hay Whitney - Bog

Somnolent, vast, inert, the darkness lay Waiting for dawn. Across the ocean stirred A luminous haze, not light, but whispering light, So softly yet, the islands had not heard. The mystery of sleep was in the trees And on the weary stars. A little cry That broke the silence seemed a sacrilege. Then thro' the palm trees glided like a ghost A dusky form; the curtain of the dark Was rent with life, the forest brought forth men.