She has an early morning of her own,
A blending of the mist and sea and sun
Into an undistinguishable one,
And Saint Sophia, from her lordly throne
Rises above the opalescent cloud,
A shadowy dome and soaring minaret
Visable though the base be hidden yet
Beneath the veiling wreaths of milky shroud,
As some dark Turkish beauty haughtily
Glances above the yashmak’s snowy fold.
Beyond Stamboul’s long stretch, a bar of gold
Falls from the sun across the distant sea.
