Morning.

O now the crimson east, its fire-streak burning, Tempts me to wander 'neath the blushing morn, Winding the zig-zag lane, turning and turning, As winds the crooked fence's wilder'd thorn. Where is the eye can gaze upon the blushes, Unmov'd, with which yon cloudless heaven flushes? I cannot pass the very bramble, weeping 'Neath dewy tear-drops that its spears surround, Like harlot's mockery on the wan cheek creeping, Gilding the poison that is meant to wound;-- I cannot pass the bent, ere gales have shaken Its transient crowning off, each point adorning,-- But all the feelings of my soul awaken, To own the witcheries of most lovely Morning.