Aubade Triste

The last pale rank of poplar-trees
Begins to glimmer into light,
With stems and branches faintly white
Against a heaven one dimly sees
Beyond the failing night.

A point of grey that grows to green
Fleck'd o'er with rainy yellow bars,—
A sudden whitening of the stars,
A pallor where the moon has been,
A peace the morning mars;

When, lo! a shiver of the breeze
And all the ruffled birds awake,
The rustling aspens stir and shake;
For, pale, beyond the pallid trees,
The dawn begins to break.

And now the air turns cool and wan,
A drizzling rain begins to fall,
The sky clouds over with a pall—
The night, that was for me, is gone;
The day has come for all.