John Hay

John Hay

October 8, 1838 - July 1, 1905



by John Hay

Roll on, O shining sun,
To the far seas,
Bring down, ye shades of eve,
The soft, salt breeze!
Shine out, O stars, and light
My darling's pathway bright,
As through the summer night
She comes to me.

No beam of any star
Can match her eyes;
Her smile the bursting day
In light outvies.
Her voice -- the sweetest thing
Heard by the raptured spring
When waking wild-woods ring --
She comes to me.

Ye stars, more swiftly wheel,
O'er earth's still breast;
More wildly plunge and reel
In the dim west!
The earth is lone and lorn,
Till the glad day be born,
Till with the happy morn
She comes to me.


Copyright 1897
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston