The sun has not yet risen, but his golden glow,
Lights up the misty portals of the far off east;
The wavering shadows o’er the prairies come and go,
And all the eerie sounds of night have ceased.
Nature’s own songsters, from the cotton trees,
Fill all the languorous air with melody.
The corn fields rustle in the gentle morning breeze,
And from the coming dawn the night-mist flees.
Anon a golden disc appears to view,
Afar, o’er shimmering seas of grass and corn—
Like diamonds shine the myriad drops of dew,
Up flies the lark, another day is born.