I

With molten ruby, clear as wine, The East's great cup of daybreak brims; The morning-glories swing and shine; The night-dews bead their satin rims; The bees are busy in flower and vine, And load with gold their limbs.

Sweet Morn, the South A loyal lover, Kisses thy mouth, Thy rosy mouth, And over and over Wooes thee with scents of wild-honey and clover.