The pitch-piping begins at four-thirty.
I leave bed till late, look out and listen,
and in the cracking sky, the brittle,
silent light is twined in with tiny tunes,
tentative solos, so shy in the large day.
They say the first sun-ray, that
bright shaft, searching west, lights on
the robin; he promptly blushes deep,
disturbed in sleep, embarrassed with the task.
But from that precious throat, soaring
in song, there soon stretch simple strings of
chiming mirth, which bell a welcome to
the swelling hour, as others hasten to the verse,
and in the breaking overglow the singing land is lit.
I can not dread the night now; the ears
of darkness ache to catch the dawn;
the shadows are drawing back; the show is starting.