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The Spike or Victoria University College Review September 1925

Dawn

Dawn

Quiet, cold and still is the dawn;
Loom through the mist the gaunt chimneys—
Sentinels of the coming day;
Whisps of smoke slowly rise and twist
About the white house-tops.
Within the garden, bleak and bare,
In some ghostly tree, the young thrush sings
Of the joy of the coming day.
Swiftly the east colours golden,
And slowly, silently, surely,
The sun comes up above the hills,
Filling the grey world with light:
As if by fairy hand.
Dewdrops are dipt in silver
And sparkle and glitter on the lawn.
A thrill of life runs through me—
I am drawn up and made one
With the glowing sun.
Down the steep hill a tram rushes
With noisy clatter and clang—
The spell is broken ....
The world is awake once more.

—E.B.