It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning,
when the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
and do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
pale in the saffron mist and seem to die,
and I myself, upon a swiftly tilting planet,
stand before a glass, and tie my tie.

( The rest of the Morning Song of Senlin, by Conrad Aiken. )