The Morn

If I could of your beauty, voice, then I an songster be,
behold the dawn approaching day in chanting morning glee.
And I would sing as warblers do when knowing they're in love;
as hum the bees, so croaks the toad; make coo the turtle dove.

And I a breeze would dare caress the wakening from your dreams,
the ever dawning myths of light disrobing nightly themes.
To bathe the sleep from virgin eyes, to see a day anew,
and read the verse of perfectness in early morning dew.

Oh, I would dance the blooming rays 'fore morn but disappears;
a waltzing with the harvesters in hosting balladeers.
Where once but dreams now orchards bear sweet berries of the vine;
and I would press the flesh of love of morning into wine.

As I would seek a maiden fair I would a poem compose,
I'd revel in resplendent verse, e'ermore in love's repose.
Of thee and only thee so scribed in blessed morning light;
my words a rising o'er the day to rouse the lark to flight.

To hail the dawning of the day for night is nearly done;
I grasped for words beyond my reach, beyond what I'd begun.
When strucken by such beauty with what verse could I adorn,
of the splendours in declaring, the advent of the morn.