O gentle vision in the dawn: 
My spirit over faint cool water glides, 
Child of the day, 
To thee; 
And thou art drawn 
By kindred impulse over silver tides 
The dreamy way 
To me. 

I need thy hands, O gentle wonder-child, 
For they are moulded unto all repose; 
Thy lips are frail, 
And thou art cooler than an April rose; 
White are thy words and mild: 
Child of the morning, hail! 

Breathe thus upon mine eyelids -- that we twain 
May build the day together out of dreams. 
Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems 
Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain. 
I cannot live, except as I may be 
Compelled for love of thee. 
O let us drift, 
Frail as the floating silver of a star, 
Or like the summer humming of a bee, 
Or stream-reflected sunlight through a rift. 

I will not hope, because I know, alas, 
Morning will glide, and noon, and then the night 
Will take thee from me. Everything must pass 
Swiftly -- but nought so swift as dawn-delight. 
If I could hold thee till the day, 
Is broad on sea and hill, 
Child of repose, 
What god can say, 
What god or mortal knows, 
What dream thou mightest not in me fulfil? 

O gentle vision in the dawn: 
My spirit over faint cool water glides, 
Child of the day, 
To thee; 
And thou art drawn 
By kindred impulse over silver tides 
The dreamy way 
To me.