The winter moon has such a quiet car
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest;
She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest,
And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star.
Because her star is silent do not wake:
But there shall tremble on the general earth,
And over you, a quickening and a birth,
The sun is near the hill-tops for your sake.
The latest born of all the days shall creep,
To kiss the tender eyelids of the year,
And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep,
And smile at the new world, and make it dear
With living murmurs more than dreams are deep.
Silence is dead, my Dawn; the morning’s here.