The Morning Sun.

By Edward Shanks

Perhaps you sleep now, fifty miles to the south,

While I sit here and dream of you by night.

The thick soft blankets drawn about your mouth

Have made for you a nest of warm delight;

Your short crisp hair is thrown abroad and spilled

Upon the pillow's whiteness and your eyes

Are quiet and the round soft lids are filled

With sleep.

But I shall watch until sunrise

Creeps into chilly clouds and heavy air,

Across the lands where you sleep and I wake,

And I shall know the sun has seen you there,

Unmoving though the winter morning break.

Next, you will lift your hands and rub your eyes

And turn to sleep again but wake and start

And feel, half dreaming, with a dear surprise,

My hand in the sunbeam touching at your heart.