Maurice Thompson

A Breath Of Morn

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Flow in upon my soul, O wind of morn!
Touch me with ancient tenderness and faith,
Thou perfumed waft from fields of blooming corn!
Woo me, lure me from this poisoned shore of Death.


I hear far voices, sweet as flutes, somewhere,
Calling me into the darkness, and I know
Their soft insidious languor on the air
Comes from the land of burial, damp and low.


Blow on me, O thou current of sweet youth!
Come back dear days of boyhood and bright dreams:
Arise again, thou white, clear bloom of truth;
Babble once more, O careless morning streams!


Kiss me, warm lips of purity and love;
Sing to me, lasses from the meadow lands;
Bind me with blossoms from the sacred grove
Wherein the temple of my childhood stands.


Lo! I am sick to death of Manhood's ways,
And long to be a fighting man no more;
No more for me the clanging iron days;
So let me live my happy maytime o'er.


Blow on me, wind, out of the early morn,
And bear away from me the wear and fret;
Bring me the perfume of the blooming corn,
And I will sing through many a springtime yet!

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Maurice Thompson