American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

MORNING.

OF all his starry honours shorn, Away old night is stealing; And upward springs the laughing morn, A joyous life revealing.

Blue-eyed she comes with tresses spread, And breath than incense sweeter; The mountains glow beneath her tread, Light clouds float on to meet her.

The tall corn briskly stirs its sheaves; A thousand buds have burst The soft green calyx, that their leaves To greet her may be first.

The flowers, that lay all night in tears, Look upward one by one; And pearls each tiny petal bears, An offering to the sun.

With beads the trembling grass is dress'd, — Each thin spire hath its string, Scattered in mist, as from her nest The ground-bird flaps her wing.

The lake obeys the zephyr's will, While, as by fingers press'd, The bending locust-buds distil Their sweetness o'er its breast.

With busy sounds the valley rings; The ploughman yokes his team; The fisher trims his light boat's wings, And skims the brightening stream.

The gentle kine forsake the shed, And wait the milk-maid's call; The frighted squirrel hoars her tread, And scuds along the wall.

Scattering the night-clouds as in scorning, Bright pour the new-born rays; There's more of life in one sweet morning, Than in a thousand days.