GATES OF THE MORNIN( 



|HE texture of great moors is mysteriously 

 changed at dawn, and their fabric in this 

 hour often shines under the risen sun as 

 though sown with pearls. Thus, I saw 

 Dartmoor but yesterday, the hour then being five, the 

 sun, like a mighty lamp, hanging low above the tors. 

 Around me granite rose, and ruined homes of the old 

 stone-men lay on the hand of Time, and rivers lifted 

 their voices in the valley beneath. 



At that hour the mother-o'-mist wandered with 

 many a trip and turn and soft, sudden footstep over 

 the crowns of the land ; then, arising, she spread 

 rosy wings into the blue, and dislimned, and vanished 

 as the sun kissed her. Water gleamed along the 

 wide marshes, and outlined the black peat ridges with 

 light ; all the world glimmered under sparkling 

 moisture born from a starry night and a temperature 

 below dewpoint ; and every blade of the grasses, 

 every humble growth upon the stone wall, every little 

 budding rush and sedge held up its proper jewel to 

 the sun. 



Man still slept, but the world had long wakened, 

 save for him. The mares and foals, sheep and lambs 



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