Morning

Wind-soft blown the river snakes -
Slight-subtle turns the mirror makes;
The crystal cast the feather breaks,
And slow depart the rippled wakes.

Harsh the heat the desert bakes;
Fire-fierce the furied ardour wakes -
Sun-seething the horizon quakes,
And drift the burning barren lakes.

Alone, the cold-clad mountain aches;
The sky the misted mask opaques;
The wintered peak the lightning rakes,
And fervoured fall the frozen flakes.

The lark the verdant isle awakes;
Wing-whispered blows the laurel takes -
Dew-dashed the crimson orchid shakes,
And day, sun-splendoured, dawn forsakes.