By Paul Laurence Dunbar

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.”