 | Songs of two centuries |  |
Early Morning.
How we miss the bliss we aim for!
Surely 'tis not this I came for:
Hear the rooster's trumpet, shaming
All who do not greet the morn!
Hear the hen's wild song, proclaiming
That another hope is born!
Hear the wakeful cattle lowing
For the gardens of the herds;
Hear on air the maids bestowing
Lexicons of damaged words;
Hear the robins' notes inspiring
You to drink those rills of sound;
Hear the sparrows, loud inquiring
Where the early worm is found!
Then back to your covert creeping,
Try again the art of sleeping,
With such critics grouped around.
Surely 'tis not this I came for:
Hear the rooster's trumpet, shaming
All who do not greet the morn!
Hear the hen's wild song, proclaiming
That another hope is born!
Hear the wakeful cattle lowing
For the gardens of the herds;
Hear on air the maids bestowing
Lexicons of damaged words;
Hear the robins' notes inspiring
You to drink those rills of sound;
Hear the sparrows, loud inquiring
Where the early worm is found!
Then back to your covert creeping,
Try again the art of sleeping,
With such critics grouped around.
I can stand the fitful walker,
Oft he comes—but oft he goes;
But that everlasting talker
Underneath the window's nose!
Words, and words, without endeavor,
Speech-brook, flowing on forever!
Talking every subject weary,
Till it wilts—a phantom dreary;
Pauseless he—this rural Solon;
Comma, period, semicolon,
None of these will he set free.
Oh what blessedness, if he
Would cut loose those pauses' tether,
And like old Lord Timothy,
Let them all appear together!
Oft he comes—but oft he goes;
But that everlasting talker
Underneath the window's nose!
Words, and words, without endeavor,
Speech-brook, flowing on forever!
Talking every subject weary,
Till it wilts—a phantom dreary;
Pauseless he—this rural Solon;
Comma, period, semicolon,
None of these will he set free.
92
Would cut loose those pauses' tether,
And like old Lord Timothy,
Let them all appear together!
From the country's clash and chatter,
Creep I, not by half so merry,
And, to try and mend the matter,
Seek the silent cemetery.
There, where sleeping is the fashion,
I, by some lone grave, mayhap,
Can indulge my silent passion,
And secure a morning nap.
Even then, some early-rising
Bug may see me, I suppose,
And begin the day by sizing
The compartments of my nose.
Only dead folks, buried deep,
They can sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
Creep I, not by half so merry,
And, to try and mend the matter,
Seek the silent cemetery.
There, where sleeping is the fashion,
I, by some lone grave, mayhap,
Can indulge my silent passion,
And secure a morning nap.
Even then, some early-rising
Bug may see me, I suppose,
And begin the day by sizing
The compartments of my nose.
Only dead folks, buried deep,
They can sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
| Songs of two centuries | |