Morning

Up, Sluggard, from thy pallet! Lo, the East
Heralds the coming of another day!
The burning Sun advanceth, like a God,
To fling his wealth of light upon the world;
And the gray mists that in the vale have slept
Through all the solemn night, are curling up,
Slowly and silently, as if to steal
The golden splendor from the Fount of Day,
And weave it in their undulating folds!
The conscious Earth is blushing in the light,
As a coy maiden, when she meets the glance
Of an impassioned lover—and the streams,
Leaping and sparkling in the morning ray,
Send gaily forth their gurgling melody,
As if they knew another day was born.
The breezes, fragrance-laden, have awaked
From their brief slumber, and are flitting now
On their light pinions over hill and plain,
Wooing the perfume from the opening flowers,
And dallying with the leaflets. Every tree
Is vocal with the melody of birds;
And the awakening herbage flings abroad
Its dewy incense on the odorous air,
As conscious that its Maker will accept
The grateful offering—and many a voice 
From vale and mountain and from shady grove,
Joins in the general anthem.