Morning In The Mountains.

—Alice Cary.

 

MORN on the mountains! streaks of roseate light

Up the high east athwart the shadows run;

The last low star fades softly out of sight,

And the gray mists go forth to meet the sun.

 

And now from every sheltering shrub and vine,

And thicket wild with many a tangled spray,

And from the birch and elm and rough-browed pine,

The birds begin to serenade the day.

 

And now the cock his sleepy harem thrills

With clarion calls, and down the flowery dells;

And from their mossy hollows in the hills;

The sheep have started all their tinkling bells.

 

Lo, the great sun! and Nature everywhere

Is all alive, and sweet as she can be;

A thousand happy sounds are in the air,

A thousand by the rivers and the sea.

 

The dipping oar, the boatman’s cheerful horn,

The well-sweep, creaking in his rise and fall;

And pleasantly along the springing corn.

The music of the ploughshare, best of all,—

 

The insect’s little hum, the whir and beat

Of myriad wings, the mower’s song so blithe,

The patter of the school-boy’s naked feet.

The joyous ringing of the whetted scythe,—

 

The low of kine, the falling meadow bar,

The teamster’s whistle gay, the droning round

Of the wet mill-wheel, and the tuneful jar

Of hollow milk-pans, swell the general sound.

 

And by the sea, and in each vale and glen

Are happy sights, as well as sounds to hear,

The world of things, and the great world of men,

All, all is busy, busy far and near.

 

The ant is hard at work, and everywhere

The bee is balanced on her wings so brown;

And the black spider on her slender stair

Is running down and up, and up and down.

 

The pine-wood smoke in bright, fantastic curls,

Above the low-roofed homestead sweeps away,

And o’er the groups of merry boys and girls

That pick the berries bright, or rake the hay.

 

Morn on the mountains! the enkindling skies,

The flowery fields, the meadows, and the sea.

All are so fair, the heart within me cries,

How good, how wondrous good our God must be.

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