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Morning Poems

Table of Contents

  1. Good-Morning, Sun by Annette Wynne
  2. Morning by Lucretia Maria Davidson
  3. Morning Mist by Ruby Archer
  4. Morning by Jane Taylor
  5. The Reveille by Anonymous
  6. Reveille by A.E Houseman
  7. Birdie's Morning Song by George Cooper
  8. The Morning Bright by T. O. Summers
  9. The Sun's Wooing by Emily Dickinson
  10. Let Us with a Gladsome Mind by Anonymous
  11. Out of the Morning by Emily Dickinson
  12. Morning in the Hills by Bliss Carman
  13. Morning by C. S. Calverley
  14. Time to Rise by Robert Louis Stevenson
  15. Get Up Early by Uncle Charles
  16. Morning by Anonymous
  17. Morning by Mary Bartol
  18. Good-Morning, Day by Annette Wynne
  19. Morn by Ruby Archer
  20. Sunday Morning by Ruby Archer
  21. Song of Morning by Ruby Archer
  22. March Morning by Edna Mead
  23. An April Morning by Bliss Carman
  24. Dawn in June by Ruby Archer
  25. A September Morning in Nebraska by C. M. Barrow
  26. A December Morning by James Power Irvine
  27. Autumn Blue Mist by Hilda Conkling
  28. A Morning Prayer by Robert F. Skillings
  29. Wood Dove by Hilda Conkling
  30. The Morning Rainbow by Ellwood Roberts
  31. A May Morning by Ellwood Roberts
  32. The Forest Morn by Douglas Malloch
  33. Morning by Annette Wynne
  34. The Still Trees by Gigi Ryan
  35. A Morning in July by Eugene J. Hall
  36. Morning on Lake Winnipiseogee by Thaddeus Pomeroy Cressey

  1. Good-Morning, Sun

    by Annette Wynne

    Good-morning, Sun,
    Work's begun
    For every one;
    While you stay
    And make our day
    Let me be as true
    And good as you.

    When you go
    Out to the West
    I shall be glad for rest
    And glad for the day
    That went away.

    Good-morning, Sun,
    Work's begun,
    And play—
    Thank you for the day!

  2. Morning

    I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,
    I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;

    - Lucretia Maria Davidson
    by Lucretia Maria Davidson

    I come in the breath of the wakened breeze,
    I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees;
    And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night,
    From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white.
    Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky,
    I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high;
    When my gay purple banners are waving afar;

    When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star;
    When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake,
    Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake!
    Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven
    Glitter bright with the beautiful fire of even;
    When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high,
    O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky,
    Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven,
    To their far-away harbour, all silently driven,
    Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light,
    Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night;
    When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where
    The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star;
    When all is in silence and solitude here,
    Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear!
    But when I steal silently over the lake,
    Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake!

  3. Morning Mist

    Young Morn treads lightly o'er the hills
    With starry eyes.
    Her presence all the darkness fills,

    - Ruby Archer
    Morning Mist
    by Ruby Archer

    Young Morn treads lightly o'er the hills
    With starry eyes.
    Her presence all the darkness fills,
    That, fainting, flies.
    The world lies waiting at her feet
    In quick suspense,
    And all his being seems to beat
    With pulse intense.
    Her foot leaves silver on the dew
    That kissing dies.

    Her bosom's dainty, rose-bud hue
    Emblooms the skies.
    Her softly taken breath but stirs
    A dreamy cloud,
    And moves the stately-standing firs
    To homage proud.
    About her floats in gauzy folds
    A garment fine.
    A glint of starry beams it holds,
    And white moonshine.
    Diaphanous, it trails and flees—
    Half shadow-fraught—
    And intervening are the trees
    All dimly wrought.
    How subtle charm, when half betrayed,
    Where shadow broods,
    On Rembrandt background, mind portrayed,
    What eye eludes.
    Thou, Morning, with thy mist-veiled grace
    Art fairer far
    Than if we saw thy radiant face
    With naught to bar.
    Ay, pensive Morn, thy misty dress
    Thee well beseems,
    For thou hast all thy loveliness,
    And we—our dreams.

  4. Morning

    by Jane Taylor

    The lark is up to meet the sun,
    The bee is on the wing,
    The ant her labor has begun,
    The woods with music ring.

    Shall birds and bees and ants be wise,
    While I my moments waste?
    Oh, let me with the morning rise,
    And to my duties haste.

    Why should I sleep till beams of morn
    Their light and glory shed?
    Immortal beings were not born
    To waste their time in bed.

  5. The Reveille

    by Anonymous

    It is made of the jubilant sparrows,
    All chirping a different song,
    And the song sparrow singing supremely,
    So royally rippling along,

    It is made of the chirruping robins
    The orioles carolling gay
    The pewees plaintively urgent
    The trumpeting crow and the jay.

    It is made of the yellowthroat's whistle,
    And the redstart's sibilant rune,
    Of the towhee's militant summons,
    And the vireo's iterant tune.

    It's a rare and imperial chorus,
    So jauntily merry and true;
    Bird brothers! 'tis mightily pleasant
    Beginning the day's work with you!

  6. Reveille

    by A.E Houseman

    Wake: the silver dusk returning
    Up the beach of darkness brims,
    And the ship of sunrise burning
    Strands upon the eastern rims.

    Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
    Trampled to the floor it spanned,
    And the tent of night in tatters
    Straws the sky-pavilioned land.

    Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:
    Hear the drums of morning play;
    Hark, the empty highways crying
    ‘Who’ll beyond the hills away?’

    Towns and countries woo together,
    Forelands beacon, belfries call;
    Never lad that trod on leather
    Lived to feast his heart with all.

    Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
    Sunlit pallets never thrive;
    Morns abed and daylight slumber
    Were not meant for man alive.

    Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
    Breath’s a ware that will not keep.
    Up, lad: when the journey’s over
    There’ll be time enough to sleep.

  7. Birdie's Morning Song

    by George Cooper

    Wake up, little darling, the birdies are out,
    And here you are still in your nest!
    The laziest birdie is hopping about;
    You ought to be up with the rest.
    Wake up, little darling, wake up!

    Oh, see what you miss when you slumber so long—
    The dewdrops, the beautiful sky!
    I can not sing half what you lose in my song;
    And yet, not a word in reply.
    Wake up, little darling, wake up!

    I've sung myself quite out of patience with you,
    While mother bends o'er your dear head;
    Now birdie has done all that birdie can do:
    Her kisses will wake you instead!
    Wake up, little darling, wake up!

  8. The Morning Bright

    by T. O. Summers

    The morning bright
    With rosy light,
    Has wak'd me from my sleep;
    Father, I own,
    Thy love alone
    Thy little one doth keep.

    All through the day
    I humbly pray,
    Be Thou my Guard and Guide;
    My sins forgive,
    And let me live,
    Blest Jesus, near Thy side.

    Oh make Thy rest
    Within my breast,
    Great Spirit of all Grace;
    Make me like Thee,
    Then shall I be
    Prepared to see Thy face.

  9. The Sun's Wooing

    The morning fluttered, staggered,
    Felt feebly for her crown

    - Emily Dickinson
    The Sun's Wooing
    by Emily Dickinson

    The sun just touched the morning;
    The morning, happy thing,
    Supposed that he had come to dwell,
    And life would be all spring.

    She felt herself supremer, —
    A raised, ethereal thing;
    Henceforth for her what holiday!
    Meanwhile, her wheeling king

    Trailed slow along the orchards
    His haughty, spangled hems,
    Leaving a new necessity, —
    The want of diadems!

    The morning fluttered, staggered,
    Felt feebly for her crown, —
    Her unanointed forehead
    Henceforth her only one.

  10. Let Us with a Gladsome Mind

    by Anonymous

    Let us with a gladsome mind,
    Praise the Lord for He is kind,
    For His mercies shall endure,
    Ever faithful, ever sure.

    Children, come extol His might,
    Join with saints and angels bright, Refrain

    All our wants He doth supply,
    Loves to hear our humble cry, Refrain

    All things living He doth feed,
    His full hand supplies their need, Refrain

    Let us then with gladsome mind,
    Praise the Lord for He is kind, Refrain

  11. Out of the Morning

    by Emily Dickinson

    Will there really be a morning?
    Is there such a thing as day?
    Could I see it from the mountains
    If I were as tall as they?

    Has it feet like water-lilies?
    Has it feathers like a bird?
    Is it brought from famous countries
    Of which I have never heard?

    Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
    Oh, some wise man from the skies!
    Please to tell a little pilgrim
    Where the place called morning lies!

  12. Morning in the Hills

    by Bliss Carman

    How quiet is the morning in the hills!
    The stealthy shadows of the summer clouds
    Trail through the cañon, and the mountain stream
    Sounds his sonorous music far below
    In the deep-wooded wind-enchanted cove.

    Hemlock and aspen, chestnut, beech, and fir
    Go tiering down from storm-worn crest and ledge,
    While in the hollows of the dark ravine
    See the red road emerge, then disappear
    Towards the wide plain and fertile valley lands.

    My forest cabin half-way up the glen
    Is solitary, save for one wise thrush,
    The sound of falling water, and the wind
    Mysteriously conversing with the leaves.

    Here I abide unvisited by doubt,
    Dreaming of far-off turmoil and despair,
    The race of men and love and fleeting time,
    What life may be, or beauty, caught and held
    For a brief moment at eternal poise.

    What impulse now shall quicken and make live
    This outward semblance and this inward self?
    One breath of being fills the bubble world,
    Colored and frail, with fleeting change on change.

    Surely some God contrived so fair a thing
    In a vast leisure of uncounted days,
    And touched it with the breath of livng joy,
    Wondrous and fair and wise! It must be so.

  13. Morning

    by C. S. Calverley

    ’Tis the hour when white-horsed Day
    Chases Night her mares away;
    When the Gates of Dawn (they say)
    Phœbus opes:
    And I gather that the Queen
    May be uniformly seen,
    Should the weather be serene,
    On the slopes.

    When the ploughman, as he goes
    Leathern-gaitered o’er the snows,
    From his hat and from his nose
    Knocks the ice;
    And the panes are frosted o’er,
    And the lawn is crisp and hoar,
    As has been observed before
    Once or twice.

    When arrayed in breastplate red
    Sings the robin, for his bread,
    On the elmtree that hath shed
    Every leaf;
    While, within, the frost benumbs
    The still sleepy schoolboy’s thumbs,
    And in consequence his sums
    Come to grief.

    But when breakfast-time hath come,
    And he’s crunching crust and crumb,
    He’ll no longer look a glum
    Little dunce;
    But be brisk as bees that settle
    On a summer rose’s petal:
    Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle
    On at once.

  14. Time to Rise

    by Robert Louis Stevenson

    A birdie with a yellow bill
    Hopped upon my window sill,
    Cocked his shining eye and said:
    "Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head!"

    Never let the sun catch you in bed.

    – Myers Anderson

  15. Get Up Early

    by Uncle Charles

    The sun is uprising, the flowers are upspringing,
    And the birds are so happy that they cannot help singing:
    So wake, little children, you’ve had enough slumber;
    Out of doors you will find there are joys without number.

    The trees and the grass in the sun shine are gleaming;
    In the fresh morning air the waters are streaming:
    Oh! waste not in sleep all these beautiful hours:
    Early rising is health; ask the birds and the flowers!

  16. Morning

    by Anonymous

    Darkness is banished and morning is here;
    Gilding the heavens the sunbeams appear.

    Songs of thanksgiving arise in the air;
    Blossoms their beauty and perfume prepare

    Dewdrops like diamonds flash on the grass
    Bees in the meadows all hum as they pass.

    Nature awaketh to gladden our heart,
    For in her joyfulness all take a part.

  17. Morning

    by Mary Bartol

    Above the hills a saffron glow—
    The heavenly azure deepens higher—
    While through dark pines, gleams long and low
    A floating lake of fire!

    Within the grove fresh winds awake,
    A little gush of song is heard,
    And every plumy leaf of brake
    By breezy sighs is stirred.

    One moment's chant—a hush profound—
    Soft songs and ferny dances cease;
    To silence dies the murmuring sound,
    And motion glides to peace.

    The dawn has come with ecstasy,
    And I, a part of her and clay,
    Breathe in the joy she giveth me,
    And put my care away.

  18. Good-Morning, Day

    by Annette Wynne

    Good morning, Day,
    Whether cloud or sun,
    The world's begun
    Again for work and play.

    If I do my best,
    God will tend the rest—
    Working, loving, sharing all,
    Making you, Day, beautiful.

    Good morning, Day,
    The world's begun
    For every one
    For love and work and play!

  19. Morn

    by Ruby Archer

    The breath of Morn is softly taken,
    All in little sighs,
    As if unwilling to awaken,
    With a dream prismatic shaken
    Drifting from her eyes.

    Waking bird-song thrills around her,
    A breeze goes by her bower,
    Now a butterfly has found her.
    Lo—she breaks the dark that bound her,—
    Opens like a flower.

  20. Sunday Morning

    by Ruby Archer

    How sweet to wait within a holy place
    The hour of song and prayer,
    To yield the heart unto a spell of grace,
    Serenely brooding like a presence there.

    The hymns that live within the organ's heart,
    Flow silent o'er the soul;
    Unsounded echoes from the memory start,
    Like mystic writing from an angel's scroll.

  21. Song of Morning

    by Ruby Archer

    I come, the maiden Morning,
    With pearls about my hair.
    I am so young, so elfin young,
    And yet have many a task fulfilled
    Before the older heads have willed
    To call the day begun.
    I've clad the hills in purple,
    And freshened all the air,
    For every bud a flower hung,
    A dewy kiss the grasses flung,
    And waked the sleepy sun.
    I've hurried up the little birds,
    And brought the breezes out,
    And made them toss the forest's hair
    And put the bats to rout.
    So now, good mortals, you may rise.
    Come out and greet me, glad of eyes,—
    I've made all fair, all fair.

  22. March Morning

    by Edna Mead

    A pale sun glints across the swirling drifts,
    Bent trees are crackling with a silver load,
    A wild gale shrieks in mischief as it lifts
    A stinging screen of flakes across the road.

    It seems midwinter still, and still the world
    Lies wrapped in sleep upon the year's high shelf,
    But March is such a rogue, his challenge hurled
    In fury cannot hide his other self.

    A softer azure tints the sky's cold blue,
    Sometimes, for moments, all the wind is quiet,
    Ice jewels melt to tears the rendezvous
    Of ruffled sparrows teems with April riot.

    Still roars the lion, but the lamb is bolder,
    The madness has a subtle touch of play,
    The night was Winter, but the Spring grown older,
    Knows what a sham of Winter is today.

  23. An April Morning

    by Bliss Carman

    Once more in misted April
    The world is growing green.
    Along the winding river
    The plumey willows lean.

    Beyond the sweeping meadows
    The looming mountains rise,
    Like battlements of dreamland
    Against the brooding skies.

    In every wooded valley
    The buds are breaking through,
    As though the heart of all things
    No languor ever knew.

    The golden-wings and bluebirds
    Call to their heavenly choirs.
    The pines are blued and drifted
    With smoke of brushwood fires.

    And in my sister's garden
    Where little breezes run,
    The golden daffodillies
    Are blowing in the sun.

  24. Dawn in June

    by Ruby Archer

    Oh, the freshness of the morning, the early morning rosy,
    When the kiss of night, betrayed in dew, yet lingers on the leaves;
    And the air brims o'er with sweetness, like a cool and fragrant posy;
    And the wanton elves of sunshine frolic laughing 'round the eaves.

    All the time the very instinct that impels the lark and swallow
    To dart along the sunlight with quick-beating throat and wings,
    Thrills the human heart with rapture 'till it fain would fly and follow,
    And within the breast it trembles, and it sings—ah, how it sings!

  25. A September Morning in Nebraska

    by C. M. Barrow

    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.

  26. A December Morning

    by James Power Irvine

    You have seen a winter morning, the horizon dull and low,
    When the earth and all belonging, lay a level waste of snow.

    In the bleak and empty distance there was naught of all we knew,
    Save the gaunt and naked poplars to arrest the wandering view.

    It was as a stretch of desert, with no sign of life thereon,—
    The familiar hills and hollows, and the fields and fences gone.

    Every road and lane and byway, far and near, were blotted out;
    Hushed the sound of bells, and silent were the huntsman's gun and shout;

    E'en the axes of the choppers were unheard amidst the wood,
    And in drifts the horse of Iron with his train imprisoned stood.

    East and West, and North and Southward, mute and white the vastness lay,
    Brooded dumb the low and sullen, blank infinitude of gray.

  27. Autumn Blue Mist

    by Hilda Conkling

    This is night's own trailing wind
    That goes by in blue mist
    When morning wakes.
    This is not smoke from chimneys,
    No fire breathes and puffs it out
    Across the sun.
    This is autumn on an October morning . . .
    Early hills,
    Fields in a veil.

  28. A Morning Prayer

    by Robert F. Skillings

    As this new morning I awake,
    I pray Thee Lord, for Jesus' sake,
    Help me, by wisdom from above,
    Through all this day to dwell in love.

  29. Wood Dove

    by Hilda Conkling

    When morn in breaking
    When the sun is rising over
    dark, blue hills,
    When mists go by
    I hear a voice say
    Coo . . . coo . . .
    It is Mistress Wood Dove
    Hidden and alone,
    Glad of morning.
    I call,
    She answers:
    Morning is sweeter
    For her voice.

  30. The Morning Rainbow

    by Ellwood Roberts

    Eastern sky at dawn was bright,
    Glorious arose the sun;
    Everywhere was brilliant light—
    Day in beauty had begun.
    But the West was overcast
    With a cloud, foreboding storm;
    Raindrops soon were falling fast,
    Then appeared the rainbow's form.

    In the West, revealed to sight,
    Stood the arch of color rare,
    Perfect in the glowing light,
    Yet a sign of sure storm there.
    Rapidly the clouds o'erspread,
    Gone the wondrous rainbow bright,
    Gone the fair sweet morn—instead,
    All around us gloom of night.

    Came the warning not in vain,
    Gloom-enshrouded heavens frown—
    Ere an hour had passed the rain
    Poured in dashing torrents down.
    Through the long and gloomy day,
    Till the afternoon was gone,
    Fell the rain from clouds of gray;
    Such the end to perfect dawn!

    With this day, in promise bright,
    Will some human lives compare;
    Perfect is the dawn of light,
    With a flush of color rare.
    Bright the morn—too bright to last—
    Comes the cloud, and falls the rain;
    Soon is dawn's effulgence past,
    Early promise all in vain.

  31. A May Morning

    by Ellwood Roberts

    The mist of early morning
    Has slowly passed away,
    A scene of rarest beauty
    Unfolds where late it lay.
    What can surpass in sweetness
    The charm that dwells in May?

    The wondrous fresh leaves glisten
    In sunshine glad and bright;
    The birds, in merry humor,
    Give thanks for Spring's sweet light;
    The miracle of May-time
    Bursts full upon the sight.

    The whole green earth rejoices
    In warmth and light to-day;
    The scent of myriad blossoms
    Is wafted far away.
    Where is there other brightness
    Like that we find in May?

  32. The Forest Morn

    by Douglas Malloch

    I sometimes think that thus was born the world—
    Not like a blinding sun from chaos hurled
    To blaze and burn for ages—that it woke
    As wakes the forest, wakes the verdant oak,
    Breathing soft breezes, wreathed in lacy mist
    Through which there burst the gleam of amethyst.

    The forest morn! Across the night profound
    Steals now the music of harmonious sound—
    The bird's faint twitter, sleepy, sleepy still,
    The bird's first carol, sweet, all sweet and shrill;
    And down through branches, poured in generous streams,
    Come tints of dawn, the colors of our dreams.

  33. Morning

    by Annette Wynne

    Dear Lord, that takes the night,
    Thank you for the morning light;
    When little stars all hide away,
    Thank you for the sun and day!

  34. The Still Trees

    by Gigi Ryan

    Early morning, sun begins to rise,
    Waking birds with joy besong the skies.
    The dew reflects His glory from the grass,
    Why are the trees so solemn I then ask?

    Full will fresh new clothing for the spring,
    So often lisping praises as limbs swing.
    Ah, they stand in awe of God on high,
    Choosing to be still, and know He’s nigh.

  35. A Morning in July

    by Eugene J. Hall

    The sun gleams over the mountains,
    And through the hazy air
    It lightens the sombre hill-sides,
    And meadows green and fair.
    It gilds the light clouds drifting
    Adown the summer sky;
    There's beauty in the dawning
    Of a morning in July.

    The birds are joyfully singing
    Amid the leafy boughs,
    While into the pastures the farm-boys
    Are driving the glossy cows;
    The busy bees are humming,
    The larks sing in the sky;
    'Tis a picture of wondrous beauty,
    A morning in July.

    I stand and dream of a morning,
    A morning bright and fair;
    When I was a merry farm-boy,
    Without an earthly care.
    I gaze on the grand old picture
    Of woodland, field and sky;
    But I am a boy no longer,
    This morning in July.

    The hills are here, and the mountains,
    The rocks and leafy trees,
    From over the waving meadows
    I feel the fragrant breeze;
    But those whom I knew have vanished,
    And older grown am I;
    I sigh as I think of the changes
    Of this morning in July.

    Ah! the dreams of youth are fleeting
    As the fancies that fill the mind;
    In the race of life we are running,
    They soon are left behind.
    I turn away from the picture,
    And think, with a mournful sigh,
    Of the forms and friends that have vanished
    Since that morning in July.

  36. Morning on Lake Winnipiseogee

    by Thaddeus Pomeroy Cressey

    I saw incoming morn with silent tread
    Enter the azure portals of the east,
    "The smile of the Great Spirit" wide out-spread
    With floods of golden light upon its breast;
    And from the fleeting shades of parting night
    Wake with the flush of blushing beauty bright.

    I saw the orient sun paint varied hues
    Of gold and crimson on the horizon's rim;
    Stars paled their light, as gleam on gleam arose
    And pierced the caverns now no longer dim,
    While in the sunlight transient visions fade
    That flecked with broken light the mountain glade.

    The dewy mists, that bathed the mountain's brow,
    Had kissed with lingering lips the flower-crowned height,
    Hung diamond drops upon each leafy bough,
    And, when the sunbeams met departed night,
    Then slowly rising into mist-cloud flake,
    They swept their shadows o'er the crystal lake.

    Then suddenly from out the fleecy cloud,
    A stately eagle rose with out-spread wing,
    And floated in the sunlight, calm and proud,
    His shrill-toned voice made echoing mountains ring;
    A thousand voices woke the sleeping hills,
    And gaily rang the lucid crystal rills.

    Among the hills and vales and islands green,
    Were waving ferns beneath the arching trees,
    And shafts of glimmering light, the hills between,
    And woodland choirs breathing sweet melodies;
    I heard a voice in every fountain's flow,
    All things were fair around, above, below.

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