We trust, in plumed procession,
For such the angels go,
Rank after rank, with even feet
And uniforms of snow.




XVII.

DAWN.

When night is almost done,
And sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the spaces,
It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready,
And wonder we could care
For that old faded midnight
That frightened but an hour.




XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove,