Morning
How beautiful, beneath yon eastern cloud,
Hung like a porter by the gates of Day,
The breezy Morning opes its eye of grey,
Lifting from off the earth Night’s murky shroud!
How freshly from the mountains comes the breeze;
Fanning the robe of Summer, gemm’d with flowers;
Shaking the dew-drops from the forest-trees,
And whispering sweetly in the wakening bowers!
The robin stirs among the trembling leaves,
And up the mountains scuds the timid hare;
The sparrows chatter on the shaven eaves,
O’er which the graceful smoke-wreaths curl so fair;
The rising sky-lark sings to greet the dawn,
And the blithe mower whistles on the lawn.
The audio file is for personal use only and may not be played in a public environment without the express permission of the John Harris Society.
