Heaven

O'er gentle slopes, whose curves
Cut not against the peaceful sky,
The rosy light of early dawn comes creeping.
Within the valley way, sheep sleep, dyed
Of the pale rose hue; and the white blossoms
Sifting from the greened branch,
Become roseate and warm.
Lo, the light of His countenance is
As the first blush of the morning-
And Heaven taketh on the hue.