 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
GOOD-MORNING.
The blushing precursor of Phœbus expands
The crystalline portals of light,
And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her hands
To crimson the mantle of night.
Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky.
With rapture I greet my dear Jane,
Whose health-glowing visage and love-beaming eye
Aurora but mimics in vain—
“Good-morning!”
The crystalline portals of light,
And scatters the dew-dripping tints from her hands
To crimson the mantle of night.
Sleep shakes his soft pinions and soars to the sky.
With rapture I greet my dear Jane,
Whose health-glowing visage and love-beaming eye
Aurora but mimics in vain—
“Good-morning!”
Thy presence to me is the dawning of light,
And pleasure illumines my breast;
But, ah! in thy absence, morn changes to night—
Hope sinks like the star of the west.
Then let us, my fair one, the moments improve
Which morning allows us for bliss,
Let the new-risen day be devoted to love,
And, in earnest, accept of a kiss—
“Good-morning!”
And pleasure illumines my breast;
But, ah! in thy absence, morn changes to night—
Hope sinks like the star of the west.
53
Which morning allows us for bliss,
Let the new-risen day be devoted to love,
And, in earnest, accept of a kiss—
“Good-morning!”
When evening returns, and in slumber I lie,
Then fancy the scene shall retrace;
Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye,
And restore me thy blissful embrace.
And when through the lattice Aurora's tints play,
Oh fly to the arms of thy swain,
With him taste the sweets of the infantile day,
And hear him repeat, on the plain—
“Good-morning!”
Then fancy the scene shall retrace;
Shall light up anew the soft glance of thine eye,
And restore me thy blissful embrace.
And when through the lattice Aurora's tints play,
Oh fly to the arms of thy swain,
With him taste the sweets of the infantile day,
And hear him repeat, on the plain—
“Good-morning!”
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |