Morning
Morning is but the infant day
Born of the womb of time.
A babe that speaks to those that hear
A language so sublime.
The sky with blood from birth is stained
Foretells of coming rain.
Red sky at night is his delight
At dawn a sad refrain.
That sailor in that ship at sea
That farmer by the brook
They know the signs, they read the sky
Like you or I a book.
While wet or dry this day shall be
Both yours and mine to keep.
Until it's hours reach 24
And then it too shall sleep.
Why gaze we then at painted sky
And dwell upon this thought?
Let's merrily go forth and live
This day that time has wrought
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