Before the sun had ambled low

Below the pines and firs

I fancied I had loathed the sun,

As all the saturnine—

Until it rose upon the fields

and weathered faces

In shambles high and crowned above

The blackened sycamore

And broke upon the hills, at bay,

Illumined nevermore,

When ere it rose the more

Upon the fields and

weathered faces—

I thought that I had loathed the sun,

Before the dearth of graces