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Ode to Morning

Yon morning, spellbound mistress of the skies
    How gently all your feathers move apart
How lightly thrill your soft, eternal sighs
    And feed with hope and mirth my swollen heart
    How softly sway your tresses of pure gold
        And glut with wealth the barren, night-sprent glade
            And plump the crisp, brown hazel shells with beams
        And cast a light strewn with a cooling shade
            Athwart the gentle ebbs of oozing streams
    Once quiet, still unravished yet. How bold

Your bubbling swells all cast their glinting charms
    Across the earth’s soft cheek and softer breast
Yon morning, wrap the world within your arms
    And light each mead with gloried noonday zest
    And twine with passioned rays the Heaven’s steep
        And cups of all the gem-encrusted buds
            And feed the bowers with a web of light
        And all the clouds with Lord Apollo’s rods
            Of nascent shine to veer away the night
    And all the evil spells of its black sleep

Return to us, gold morn with aching pride,
    And wake the spirits of the sleeping clouds,
And stir the bees which in the foxgloves hide,
    And let the bashful roses pry their shrouds
    To feel upon their breasts the cooling breeze
         Unfold from out the mountain’s stony rim
             The rainbows, looming arches, sundry hued
         Gold morn, when midnight’s sleepy glow shall dim
             And leas no more shall be by stars bedewed
    Then glow, until the lark sings with full ease!

© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov

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