From "The Triumph Of Music." ... Fresh From Bathing In Orient Fountains, In Wells Of Rock Water And Snow, Comes The Dawn With Her Pearl-Brimming Fingers O'Er The Thyme And The Pines Of Yon Mountain; Where She Steps Young Blossoms Fresh Blow.... And Sweet As The Star-Beams In Fountains, And Soft As The Fall Of The Dew, Wet As The Hues Of The Rain-Arch, To Me Was The Dawn When On Mountains Pearl-Capped O'Er The Hyaline Blue, Saint-Fair And Pure Thro' The Blue, Her Spirit In Dimples Comes Dancing, In Dimples Of Light And Of Fire, Planting Her Footprints In Roses On The Floss Of The Snow-Drifts, While Glancing Large On Her Brow Is Her Tire, Gemmed With The Morning-Star'S Fire. But Sweet As The Incense From Altars, And Warm As The Light On A Cloud, Sad As The Wail Of Bleak Woodlands, To Me Was The Night When She Falters In The Sorrowful Folds Of Her Shroud, In The Far-Blowing Black Of Her Shroud, O'Er The Flower-Strewn Bier Of Her Lover, The Day Lying Faded And Fair In The Red-Curtained Chambers Of Air. When Disheveled I've Seen Her Uncover Her Gold-Girdled Raven Of Hair - All Hooped With The Gold Of The Even - And For This Sad Burial Prepare, The Spirit Of Night In The Heaven To Me Was Most Wondrously Fair, So Fair That I Wished It Were Given To Die In The Rays Of Her Hair, Die Wrapped In Her Gold-Girdled Hair.