Dawn by John Gould FletcherAbove the east horizon,The great red flower of the dawnOpens slowly, petal by petal;The trees emerge from darknessWith ghostly silver leaves,Dew powdered.Now consciousness emergesReluctantly out of tides of sleep;Finding with cold surpriseNo strange new thing to match its dreams,But merely the familiar shapesOf bedpost, window-pane, and wall.Within the city,The streets which were the last to fall to sleep,Hold yet stale fragments of the night.Sleep oozes out of stagnant ash-barrels,Sleep drowses over litter in the streets.Sleep nods upon the milkcans by back doors.And, in shut rooms,Behind the lowered window-blinds,Drawn white faces unwittingly flout the day.But, at the edges of the city,Sleep is already washed away;Light filters through the moist green leaves,It runs into the cups of flowers,It leaps in sparks through drops of dew,It whirls against the window-panesWith waking birds;Blinds are rolled up and chimneys smoke,Feet clatter past in silent paths,And down white vanishing ways of steel,A dozen railway trains convergeUpon night’s stronghold.-----Prosodia is a daily podcast dedicated to historical notes and poems, hosted by Karim El Azhari. Welcome!All show notes are heavily recycled from old The Writer's Almanac archives. May that podcast rest in peace (it was Karim's favorite).All poems are public domain or submitted by the author for use on the show.Intro and outro music by Chillhop Records. They are amazing!