by Luis G. Dato
I love the chiaroscuro of the dawn,
When day lies hushed as in some catacomb
Without its gold, the night without its gloom;
On the horizon, each a smoking cone,
Loom the dark hills, and clouds, no tint nor tone,
As by some artist painted, earth to whom
Vast canvas were in some tremendous room
Whereon to daub the infinite alone.
Earth speaks more truly in the quiet rain
At dawn when the horizon blurs beyond,
Whence soon the day-springs of the light must start,
We see how life is neither joy nor pain,
Sunshine or darkness, nor death our bane or bond,
Nor grief nor love the orbits of the heart.
