Sunrise

“Now Morn her rosy steps in th’Eastern Clime

Advancing, sow’d the Earth with Orient Pearl,

When Adam wak’t, so custom’d, for his sleep

Was Airy light, from pure digestion bred,

And temperate vapours bland, which th’only sound

Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora’s fan,

Lightly dispers’d, and the shrill Matin Song

Of Birds on every bough . . .”

(From John Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Book V. 1671 ed.)