I
Right Fairy of the morn, with flowers arrayed,
Whose beauties to thy young pursuer seem
Beyond the ecstasy of poet's dream—
Shall I overtake thee, ere thy lustre fade?
II
Ripe glory of the noon, august, and proud,
A vision of high purpose, power, and skill,
That melteth into mirage of good-will—
Do I o'ertake thee, or embrace a cloud?
III
Gray shadow of the evening, gaunt and bare,
At random cast, beyond me or above,
And cold as memory in the arms of love—
If I o'ertook thee now, what should I care?