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The Night.
By W. M. MacKeracher
A tremor, a quiver,
Through her ran
As over the river
The dawn began.
She drew her veil
Over her eyes,
And her face grew pale,
As she watched the sun rise.
She faded, turned
To a ghost, was gone,
As the morning burned
And the day came on.
With veiled, sad eye,
And face still wan,
She waited nigh
When the dusk began.
With her tears of bliss
The earth was wet,
And soothed with her kiss,
When the sun had set.
And with stately pride
She sat on the throne
Of her empire wide
When the day had gone;
And her robes she spread
With their sable hem,
And crowned her head
With her diadem.
And the mute earth saw
That a Queen was she,
And gazed with awe
On her majesty.
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