Where, bulking huge, the mass of Baker's cone
Shadows the world below.

'Tis bright with promise now!
That flood and field
Still shrouded in the mystery of night,
Will shortly be revealed.

The wildfowl on the bay
Call to the distant flight
Of ducks, that swoop from out the realms of space,
Seeking a place to light.

Sounds through the waking hours
The beating of countless wings,
Faint voices floating through the upper air
In softest whisperings.

A blush of coming day
Flooding the eastern sky,
Fresh rosy Dawn climbing the rampart hills,
Forces the night to fly:

Then from his lair the sun
Leaps forth. The fading gleam
Of silver moon and silent stars is quenched.
Day reigns once more supreme.

The Last Arete