Morning again breaks through the mines of Heaven,

And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky,

Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven

The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh,

And catch her scattered gems of orient dye,

The pearlèd-ruby which her pathway strews;

Argent and amber, now thrown useless by.

The uncoloured clouds wear what she doth refuse,

For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use.

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Poetry