Saturday February 24, 1912.
     Day!
     Faster and more fast,
     O’er night’s brim, day boils at last.
     Boils pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim
     Where spurting and suppressed it lay,
     For not a froth-flake touched the rim
     Of yonder gap in the solid grey,
     Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
     But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
     Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,
     Rose, reddened and its seething breast
     Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then o’erflowed the world!
     What glorious sunrise as began this day!  What is a sunrise?  One may well ask that.  Why is it that a mere collection of clouds (a mere collection, I say!) at the horizon takes on a myriad tints at the will of the sun, causing the beholder to stop, and “drink in” its beauty, almost unconsciously, until the blinding