Ode to Dawn

A poem

The Ancient of Days (William Blake, 1794)

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Another day is brewing, breaking through the slumber shaking hills,
It pours across the mourning stars; melodic bars, euphonic trills
Trip, tremble with a semblance of the sorrow from the night before –
Something new is growing; who could sleep? Deep calls from deep, the shore
Unburdens more, still more. The store of fears like gentle tears are dried
From off the world. Sol's journey whirl'd, he greets his soft soul beating bride
And I, who tried to prise the bars of art apart through heartless night
Am foiléd in my toil; all tongues lie speechless in the breach of light.

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