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The mist has left the greening plain, The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, The coquette rose awakes again Her lovely self adorning. The Wind is hiding in the trees, A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, Until the rose says "Kiss me, please," 'Tis morning, 'tis morning. With staff in hand and careless-free, The wanderer fares right jauntily, For towns and houses are, thinks he, For scorning, for scorning. My soul is swift upon the wing, And in its deeps a song I bring; Come, Love, and we together sing, " 'Tis morning, 'tis morning." |