Morning

The mist has left the greening plain, 



The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, 



The coquette rose awakes again 



     Her lovely self adorning. 



 

The Wind is hiding in the trees, 



A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, 



Until the rose says "kiss me, please" 



    'Tis morning, 'tis morning. 



 

With staff in hand and careless-free, 



The wanderer fares right jauntily, 



For towns and houses are, thinks he, 



   For scorning, for scorning,



My soul is swift upon the wing, 



And in its deeps a song I bring; 



come, Love, and we together sing, 



" 'Tis morning, 'tis morning."