The night is dying,
A breeze is sighing,
The wan stars cease :
The cliffs are paling,
The sea is hailing
The dawn's increase.

The roadstead shipping
Their lamps a dipping
Before the sun :
On island beacon*
The red lights weaken,
The night is done.

The bids are stirring ;
There comes a whirring
Up from below ;
A little steamer,
Plies to and fro,

The cocks are crowing,
The line are lowing
In distant farms ;
And as I listen
The grasses glisten
With jewelled charms.

The sun is streaming
In golden gleaming
Upon the sea :
From dark cliff hollows
The noisy swallows
Are flying free.

The bees are waking,
The lark forsaking
His dewy bed :
The day is living,
Its glory giving,
The night is dead.

* Flat Holm Lighthouse.