I
Oh, cool as the flutter of fountains,
And fresh as the fall of the dew,
Wet as the hues of the rain-arch,
In that vale, is the dawn, when, o'er mountains,
Pearl-peaked and hyaline blue,
Through the Memnonian blue,
Her spirit, like music, comes slowly,
A music of light and of fire,
Leaving her footsteps in roses
There on its summits, while holy,
Fair on her brow is her tire,
Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.