Sire of the rising day

Sire of the rising day,
Lord of the fading ray,
King of sweet ways of morn or daylight done.
Ruler of cloud and sleep,

Whose tread is on the deep,
Whose feet are red in glory like the sun.
Whose hand binds up the winds as in a sheaf,
Whose shadow makes them tremble like a leaf.

Lordship and Fear are thine
Upon v\ hose brow divine
Thy diadem of pale eternal fire
Burns over eyes that fear

No stain of earthly tear,
Nor soften for a yearning world's desire.
The treasure of strong thunder at thy hand
Waits like an eagle watching thy command.

Thee rosy beams enshroud;
Rich airs and amber cloud
Reach the calm golden spaces of thy hall.
The floods awake with noise

Churning the deep, whose voice
Thou heedest not; altho' the storm-wind call,
And break beneath the swollen vapour-bands,
In wild rains wearing at the sodden lands.

Can then our weak-winged prayer
Ascend and touch thee there,
Sailing between the gleaming gates of heaven?
Can our wail climb and smite

Thy council-seat of light?
Where for a garment is the moon ray given
To clothe thy shoulders, and blue star-dust strown
Bickers about the borders of thy throne.

Ah, Lord, who may withstand
One reaching of thy hand.
Who from thy fury fence his house secure?
What citadel is there,

In lifted hand or prayer?
If all the radiant heaven may not endure
The scathing of thine anger, keen to blight,
The strong stars rolling in their fields of light.

Arise and take thine ease.
For thou art Lord; and these
Are but as sprinkled dust before thy power.
Art thou the less divine,

If they lift hands and whine.
Or less eternal since they crawl an hour?
After a little pain to fold their hands,
And perish like the beasts that tilled their lands.

They dug their field and died.
Believed thee or denied;
Cursed at thy name, or fed thy shrine with fume.
Loved somewhat, hated more.

Hoarded, grew stiff and sore.
Gat sturdy sons to labour in their room;
Became as alien faces in their land;
Died, worn and done with as a waste of sand.