SINGING morning has begun.
Where the wooded ranges run
To far summits, there the snow
Lingers yet. But down below
In the quiet, green-girt places,
Where full many a swift creek races
From the snow-lands to the sea,
Now breaks sudden harmony.
Where this tree-walled clearing dreams,
First a rosy promise beams
As a young dawn steals up the sky
Where the frozen ramparts lie.
Now from dew-wet leaves a-glitter,
Comes a little drowsy twitter,
And the first swift spear of light
Wounds at last the stubborn night.
Flashing now, bright javelins
Pierce the murk; and now begins—
As day’s gleaming ranks deploy—
Morning’s canticle of joy.
First a sleepy chuckle, breaking,
Tells of Laughing Jack awaking,
Pausing; then, from tree to tree,
Leaps unbound hilarity.
Here’s the signal . . . Morning’s hush
Sweetness shatters, as grey thrush,
Vieing with the seraphim,
Lifts his liquid matin hymn.
Golden whistler joins him then,
Now red robin, now blue wren;
Magpie’s clarion, sounding, swelling,
Caps the eager chorus welling,
As a wealth of varied notes
Pouring from these tuneful throats,
Lifting, drifting, soars on high,
Up to greet morn’s glowing sky.