How sacred is a summer morning
when night has fled and day is dawning.
The wind is warm and trees are swaying,
like nuns, lined up, on knees all praying.
The dew drop gems on leaves laid down
do gleam, more than a monarch’s crown.
The tiny bird that’s on the wing
sings sweeter song than we can sing.
Upon the hills the mist is moving;
the fading moon is disapproving.
For she must lose her borrowed light,
give way to sun’s majestic might.
The mothers wake their girl or boy
for schooling (no one’s jug of joy!)
The breeze that blew has ceased to breathe;
the air is still, the pavements seethe.
A summer morn ‘neath blue skies gleaming,
beside the sea, we should be dreaming!
At noon, when globe of gold is burning,
we’ll rue those hours we lost to learning!