'T was a vision of the morning,
'T was a vision of the mist,
Ere the purple hills of dawning
By the sun's first rays were kissed.
Up floated, through gray shadows,
To my chamber's silent gloom.
The tuneful voice of Gracie—
Its music filled my room.
It called me from my roving
In the land of pleasant dreams,
The land of happy loving,
By soft, untroubled streams.
Fair as an Easter lily,
And beautiful and tall,
Stood Gracie—from the shadows
Making her winsome call.
"Soh, Fan! soh, Fan! soh, Pinkie!
Soh, Pinkie! and soh, Fan!"
Paint ye a morning picture
More spirit-like who can!
The breathings of the river
To phantom shapes had grown;
They curled about the mountain,
They through the vale were blown.
Lightly they clung to Gracie,
Standing on dew-drops there;
Lightly they veiled her features
And flowing golden hair.
Was it a mortal maiden,
Thus, half-revealed, that stood,
On an oread of the mountain,
Or a dryad of the wood?
Or, from the darkling river
Had a fair naiad sprung,
Wearing the form of Gracie,
With Gracie's silver tongue?
"Soh, Fan! soh, Fan! soh, Pinkie!
Soh, Pinkie! and soh, Fan!"
Paint ye a morning picture
More spirit-like who can.
