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."