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MORNING.
How beautiful art thou when chill winter reigns,With mantling snows resting on mountains and plains,When crystals and icicles, lit with thy beam,Are bright as the gems that in ocean-caves gleam!How lovely, when springtime's or summer's sweet voiceHath bid all the earth in its beauty rejoice!And beautiful still, when, with sad, plaintive tone,The autumn winds mourn for the summertide flown;O'er trees, with their garlands of crimson and gold,Thine eye rests in sadness, yet loves to behold. How bright is thy coming when calm, peaceful NightGlides softly away from thy shadowy light!How welcome thy coming when tempests and stormsHave roamed through the night-hours in terrible forms!Through raindrops and mists that may veil thy clear eyes,And shroud thy bright robes of the gold-tinted dyes,Thy beaming smile glances, and lo! in the west,Where cloud-mountains rise with their dark, frowning crest,The rainbow bends graceful its radiant form,—The beautiful child of the sunbeam and storm.
