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