 | Poems And Songs |  |
150
UP IN THE MORNING.
In the early spring-time, when the flower's in the bud,
Ere leaves are the beeches adorning,
Before the bird-matin swells up from the wood,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning,
To mark how each star
Seems, while twinkling afar,
The day's growing glare to be scorning;
And feel how each thought
With devotion is fraught;
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
Ere leaves are the beeches adorning,
Before the bird-matin swells up from the wood,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning,
To mark how each star
Seems, while twinkling afar,
The day's growing glare to be scorning;
And feel how each thought
With devotion is fraught;
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
When Spring is away, and on heathery heights,
And in dells that the blue-bells are born in,
Each brooding bird-bride in her new charge delights,
'Tis sweet to be up in the mornin'.
'Tis sweet to be up
When young June's gowan-cup
Spreads, greeting the day herald's horning;
When each emerald blade
Is with sapphire inlaid,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
And in dells that the blue-bells are born in,
Each brooding bird-bride in her new charge delights,
'Tis sweet to be up in the mornin'.
151
When young June's gowan-cup
Spreads, greeting the day herald's horning;
When each emerald blade
Is with sapphire inlaid,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
When the germ of the thistle is ready to roam,
The arms of the gentle breeze borne in,
Ere farmer and bee have their full harvest-home,
'Tis sweet to be up in the mornin'.
When the shadowless moon,
Loth to leave us so soon,
Hangs, the West with her paleness adorning,
While the spider's web frail
Is a dew-beaded veil,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
The arms of the gentle breeze borne in,
Ere farmer and bee have their full harvest-home,
'Tis sweet to be up in the mornin'.
When the shadowless moon,
Loth to leave us so soon,
Hangs, the West with her paleness adorning,
While the spider's web frail
Is a dew-beaded veil,
'Tis sweet to be up in the morning!
And e'en when the year's vernal glory is fled,
And Hope only bodes its returning,
How craven the heart that lies trembling abed,
Afraid of the face of the morning!
The dull winter-day
May not have to display
One charm that's above human scorning;
But come when it will,
Dawn is beautiful still—
Then strive to be up in the morning.
And Hope only bodes its returning,
How craven the heart that lies trembling abed,
Afraid of the face of the morning!
152
May not have to display
One charm that's above human scorning;
But come when it will,
Dawn is beautiful still—
Then strive to be up in the morning.
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