MORNING.

By Jean Blewett

The eastern sky grew all aglow,

A tinted fleet sailed just below.

The thick wood and the clinging mist

Slow parted, wept good-bye, and kissed.

To primrose, tulip, daffodil,

The wind came piping gay and shrill:

“Wake up! wake up! while day is new,

And all the world is washed with dew!”