Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Morning
Morning.
There is a parting in night's murky veil,
A soft pale light is in the eastern sky;
It steals along the ocean tremblingly,
Like distant music wafted on the gale.
Stars, one by one, grow faint, and disappear,
Like waning tapers, when the feast is o'er;
While, girt with rolling mists, the mountains hoar,
High o'er the darkling glens their tops appear.
There is a gentle rustling in the grove,
Though winds be hushed: it is the stir of wings,
And now the skylark from the nest upsprings,
Trilling, in accents clear, her song of love;
And now heaven's gate in golden splendour burns—
Joy to the earth, the glorious sun returns.
A soft pale light is in the eastern sky;
It steals along the ocean tremblingly,
Like distant music wafted on the gale.
Stars, one by one, grow faint, and disappear,
Like waning tapers, when the feast is o'er;
While, girt with rolling mists, the mountains hoar,
High o'er the darkling glens their tops appear.
There is a gentle rustling in the grove,
Though winds be hushed: it is the stir of wings,
And now the skylark from the nest upsprings,
Trilling, in accents clear, her song of love;
And now heaven's gate in golden splendour burns—
Joy to the earth, the glorious sun returns.