At Peep of Dawn
At peep of dawn the daffodil
That slumbers ’neath the grassy hill
Greets smilingly, with lifted head,
The rosy morn’s oncoming tread,
The thrush sings matins by the rill.
The swallows from the ruined mill
Go coursing through the air, and fill
The sky with songs till then unsaid
At peep of dawn.
No harbinger of day is still.
With pipe new tuned and merry trill,
The lark uprises from her bed
‘Mong grasses wet with dews unshed,
And puts to shame the whip-poor-will
At peep of dawn.
Clinton Scollard.