The mist has left the greening plain, 
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, 
The coquette rose awakes again 
Her lovely self adorning.
The Wind is hiding in the trees, A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, Until the rose says "Kiss me, please," 'Tis morning, 'tis morning.
With staff in hand and careless-free, The wanderer fares right jauntily, For towns and houses are, thinks he, For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing, And in its deeps a song I bring; Come, Love, and we together sing, "'Tis morning, 'tis morning.

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