 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
216
MORNING.
The sun cometh up in the Orient sky,
Dispensing his warmth over prairie and glade,
His beams lightly dance on the cot where I lie
And kiss my soft hand on the coverlet laid,
Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze,
And the flies gamble aimlessly over my nose.
Dispensing his warmth over prairie and glade,
His beams lightly dance on the cot where I lie
And kiss my soft hand on the coverlet laid,
Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze,
And the flies gamble aimlessly over my nose.
The lark soars aloft from his nest in the tree,
And sings a fair song to his mate on the hill,
His music comes in through the lattice to me,
And my soul, all responsive, amens to his trill.
Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze,
And the flies make a feast on my ten tiny toes.
And sings a fair song to his mate on the hill,
His music comes in through the lattice to me,
And my soul, all responsive, amens to his trill.
Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze,
And the flies make a feast on my ten tiny toes.
The chambermaid armed with her dustpan and broom
And wearing an eye that is pregnant with gore,
Expresses a yearning to make up my room,
And plays a sonata on key-hole and door,
Vain the sun's winsome smiles and the lark's soft appealing,
The flies make their flight to their lairs on the ceiling.
And wearing an eye that is pregnant with gore,
Expresses a yearning to make up my room,
And plays a sonata on key-hole and door,
Vain the sun's winsome smiles and the lark's soft appealing,
The flies make their flight to their lairs on the ceiling.
August 10th, 1881.
| A little book of tribune verse | |