Morning

THE lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

EDMUND WALLER 1605–1687