_My songs were once of the sunrise_:
_They shouted it over the bar_;
_First-footing the dawns_, _they flourished_,
_And flamed with the morning star_.
_My songs are now of the sunset_:
_Their brows are touched with light_,
_But their feet are lost in the shadows_
_And wet with the dews of night_.
_Yet for the joy in their making_
_Take them_, _O fond and true_,
_And for his sake who made them_
_Let them be dear to You_.