Dawn opens like a great gold flower,
Petal by monstrous petal,
Quivering minute by minute,
Hour by hour.
Stretches great live leaves over hundreds
           of hills,
Scatters flakes of pollen dust into a
           few valleys,
Drops a loose petal down where a slender
           waterfall spills.

Morning opens like a gold flower,
Stirs and quivers singingly at the feet of the day;
Shoots transparent light into a moving mist
That wrists spirally
Like a butterfly at play.

In the heart of the mist, morning opens, a
           gold flower,
Superbly, like a dawning passion.
Can night be the consummation
Of this expectant white hour?