 | Poems |  |
77
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING, AFTER A BALL.
O modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?
'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush,
Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,
Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,
Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,
Along the heaven's amber-pavèd floor,
The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.
O fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow
Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair
Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere
Day's chariot-wheels upon the horizon glow,
Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,
And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.
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