Phoebus, arise! <br />And paint the sable skies <br />With azure, white, and red: <br />Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed <br />That she may thy career with roses spread: <br />The nightingales thy coming each-where sing: <br />Make an eternal spring! <br />Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; <br />Spread forth thy golden hair <br />In larger locks than thou wast wont before, <br />And emperor-like decore <br />With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: <br />Chase hence the ugly night <br />Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. <br /> <br />This is that happy morn, <br />That day, long-wished day, <br />Of all my life so dark, <br />(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, <br />And fates my hopes betray), <br />Which, purely white, deserves <br />An everlasting diamond should it mark. <br />This is the morn should bring unto this grove <br />My Love, to hear and recompense my love. <br />Fair King, who all preserves, <br />But show thy blushing beams <br />And thou two sweeter eyes <br />Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams <br />Did once thy heart surprise. <br />Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: <br />If that ye winds would hear <br />A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, <br />Your furious chiding stay; <br />Let Zephyr only breathe, <br />And with her tresses play. <br />The winds all silent are, <br />And Phoebus in his chair <br />Ensaffroning sea and air <br />Makes vanish every star: <br />Night like a drunkard reels <br />Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels: <br />The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, <br />The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; <br />Here is the pleasant place, <br />And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!<br /><br />William Henry Drummond<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summons-to-love/
