Morning.

MORNING.

THE earth was wandering in a troubled sleep,
And as it wandered, dreaming tearful dreams;
Then came the sun adown his orient steep,
Making sweet morning with his golden beams;
A parent, bending o’er his child he seems,
Kissing its eyes, lips, cheeks, with warm embrace;
So kisseth he the mountains, woods and streams,
And all the dew-like tears from off its face.
O joy! That father’s smile is like no other—
The child is folded in a parent’s arms,
And looks up to the sky, its blue-eyed mother,
And laughs, with light upon its waking charms,
Ah, happy earth; what tender care hast thou!
There is no midnight cloud, or dream upon thee now.