Miscellaneous poems | ||
133
SONNET I—MORNING.
Now the sun, with cheerful ray,Rises to salute the day;
While the fragrant breath of morn
Shakes the dew-drops off the thorn.
Now the lark, with tuneful note,
Strains her little warbling throat,
And, rejoicing, seems to say,
Mortals, rise and hail the day.
Miscellaneous poems | ||