Some women are autumnal in their grace,

October in their going, memory

Of green; and some with a young blossom face

Deny the winter that they cannot see.

Some women are a music heard at night,

And some a torch that burns a little while,

Or cold stars shining with a cold pure light,

Or children waiting with a wistful smile.

But you are morning, you are brave and clear,

You are those everlasting hills till noon,

When time, who walks so gravely by, draws near,

And anything may happen very soon,

You are the day that never will be night,

The long exulting eloquence of light.