Morning poems
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Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth
© George Gordon Byron
I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
The Tears of Old May Day
© John Logan
Led by the jocund train of vernal hours
And vernal airs, uprose the gentle May;
Blushing she rose, and blushing rose the flowers
That sprung spontaneous in her genial ray.
Psyche
© Robert Laurence Binyon
She is not fair, as some are fair,
Cold as the snow, as sunshine gay:
On her clear brow, come grief what may,
She suffers not too stern an air;
A Dream Of Summer
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Bland as the morning breath of June
The southwest breezes play;
Birthday Of Daniel Webster
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
WHEN life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!
Oh! He's Nothing But A Soldier
© Anonymous
"Oh! he's nothing but a soldier,"
But he's coming here tonight,
The Rising Sun
© George Moses Horton
The king of day rides on,
To give the placid morning birth;
On wheels of glory moves his throne,
Whose light adorns the earth.
Brothers, And A Sermon
© Jean Ingelow
“What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried,
‘So good comes out of evil;’” and with that,
As if all pauses it was natural
To seize for songs, his voice broke out again:
Song III
© Charlotte Turner Smith
FROM THE FRENCH.
I.
"AH! say," the fair Louisa cried,
"Say where the abode of Love is found?"
The Log Jam
© William Henry Drummond
Dere 'a s beeg jam up de reever, w'ere rapide is runnin' fas',
An' de log we cut las' winter is takin' it all de room;
My Thanks,
© John Greenleaf Whittier
'T is said that in the Holy Land
The angels of the place have blessed
The pilgrim's bed of desert sand,
Like Jacob's stone of rest.
Moses
© Thomas Parnell
Ile sing to God, Ile Sing ye songs of praise
To God triumphant in his wondrous ways,
To God whose glorys in the Seas excell,
Where the proud horse & prouder rider fell.
"Nest ce pas quil est doux,"
© Charles Baudelaire
Is it not pleasant, now we are tired,
and tarnished, like other men, to search for those fires
in the furthest East, where, again, we might see
mornings new dawn, and, in mad history,
hear the echoes, that vanish behind us, the sighs
of the young loves, God gives, at the start of our lives?
Mustering Song
© Anonymous
The boss last night in the hut did say -
"We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and don't be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go."
The Lady of the Lake: Canto V. - The Combat
© Sir Walter Scott
I.
Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,
When first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied,
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night
Oscar Of Alva: A Tale
© George Gordon Byron
How sweetly shines through azure skies,
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
And hear the din of arms no more!
