The Morning Blooms
Till the blooms are fed the aura
That low gleams the distant hills,
Glistens the dewy flora,
Enlights an ever bluing sky—
Glint and sparkle befell the swelling rill
Shall delight my sleep weary eye
Nature folds away her tinting hues
That dab each petal such singular art
Till blossoms burst forth and sunlight suffuse
The myriad colours of the mouldering heart
That even such as I, a waking recluse,
Cannot feel—a thing apart
No dew for the dandelions aloft
Their needles do not sting
No song is sung as soft
As the first notes of spring
The robin sings a far off melody
A cricket chirps in the wings
A squirrel sure unseen,
In the hollow of an oak tree
Are doubtless splendorous to glean—
What simple joys the morning brings
When we add ourselves to the scene
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