by John Vance Cheney
He that engenders had called forth the world;
The mist, ingathered from the vast of space,
Together drawn, had fashioned a great face
Of vale and mountain, tree, and river curled.
Of all the leaves and flowers was none unfurled,
No bird had song, no voice the giant race
Of beasts; for darkness held her ancient place,
The day-god's bolt glowed in his hand, unhurled.
But eastward, now, dream-colors, faint and far,
Foretold to those first lives the end of night,
And from black silence all leapt up as one;
The mother-dark, with neither moon nor star,
Was thick with wild eyes looking for the light,
And throats of thunder for the coming sun.
Last updated January 14, 2019