The Joys of a Summer Morning
The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay,
The swish of the scythe
And the roundelay
Of the meadow-lark as he wings away,
Are the joys of a summer morning.
The daisy’s bloom on the meadow’s breast,
The wandering bee
And his ceaseless quest
Of the tempting sweets in the clover’s crest,
Are the joys of a summer morning.
The lowing kine on a distant hill,
The rollicking fall
Of the near-by rill
And the lazy drone of the ancient mill,
Are the joys of a summer morning.
The feathery clouds in a faultless sky,
The new-risen sun
With its kindly eye
And the woodland breezes floating by,
Are the joys of a summer morning.
Henry A. Wise Wood