Classic Poem

The clear bright morning, with its scented air,
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds, that all the night have slept,
Take up, at dawn, the evening's dying lay;
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept,
And stole, with stealthy craft, their song away.
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs
Sprinkle with drops the traveller on his way
He hears afar the bells of tinkling cows,
Driven to pasture at the break of day;
With vigorous step he passes swift along,
Making the woods reecho with his song.

The clear bright morning, with its scented air,
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds that all the night have slept,
Take up at dawn the evening's dying lay;
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept,
And stole with stealthy craft their song away;
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs,
Sprinkle with drops of dew the whistling boy;
As to the field he early drives his cows
More than content with this his low employ;
And shall not joy uplift me when I lead,
The flocks of Christ by the still streams to feed?