How innocent of me and my dark pain

How innocent of me and my dark pain In the clear east, unclouded save for one Flamingo-coloured feather, combed and spun Into fine spirals, with ephemeral stain To dye the morning rose after the rain, Rises the simple and majestic sun, His azure course, well-known and often-run With patient brightness to pursue again. The gods are patient: they are slaves of Time No less than we, and longer, at whose call Must Phoebus rise and mount his dewy car, And lift the reins and start the dewy climb; Could we learn patience, though day-creatures all, Our day should see us godlier than we are.