Exulting Sings

Sweet morn! from countless cups of gold Thou liftest reverently on high More incense fine than earth can hold, To fill the sky.

The lark by his own carol blest, From thy green harbors eager springs; And his large heart in little breast Exulting sings.

The fly his jocund round unweaves, With choral strain the birds salute The voiceful flocks, and nothing grieves, And naught is mute.

To thousand tasks of fruitful hope, With skill against his toil, man bends And finds his work's determined scope Where'er he wends.

From earth, and earthly toil and strife, To deathless aims his love may rise, Each dawn may wake to better life, With purer eyes.