  The gray of dawn peeps up behind night’s folds, While darkling clouds yet dim the distant sky; Long miles of mist disperse along the wolds, And from the dewy boughs the songsters fly. The feathered minstrels of the opening day, Refreshed by long and undisturbed repose, Arrange the plumes that night has turned astray, And all their ruffled beauties now disclose. The late, lone bat, like some lost refugee, Seeks dark security from pressing morn, And scatters, as it hides in hollow tree, Bright butterflies that soon the scene adorn. The busy ants from their great hills descend In careful haste, and cross the grassy plain, Saluting silently each passing friend, But disregarding strangers with disdain. The lumbering beetle, lazy and begrimed, With laggard steps begins the dreary day, After the toiling snail hath long beslimed His burdened march upon the open way. Along its silken threads the spider walks, And shakes the hanging dew-drop to the ground; No chance entanglement his duty balks, As patiently he treads each subtle round. Forth from the little door of his domain The gentle bee, armed with industrious powers, Seeks treasure-trove, and soon returns again, Weighed with the honey of a hundred flowers. Within the wood the dove begins to coo, Telling, with swelling breast, his gentler mate How he has sought her presence but to sue, And all day long her love will supplicate. Out of the root-roofed archway of yon beech, The natural portal of his spacious cell, The nut-brown squirrel doth his neck far reach, To spy if all is safe within the dell. The marigolds unfold their yellow heads, That vie in colour with the saffron sun; The violets stretch within their scented beds, And raise their beauteous faces, one by one. Along the meadow land the daisies pied Proclaim their presence to the pearl-laid grass; The morning-glories, in their prudish pride, Ope wide their eyes, to gaze in nature’s glass. And whilst within the parsonage dull sleep Still holds the inmates with mesmeric power, The martins one unending circle keep, In morning service round the old church tower. The robin, rosy from his early bath, With quaint conceit, which unto him belongs, Hops, uninvited, down the garden path And breaks the silence with his tuneless songs. Whereat the watch-dog rousing from his sloth, Chases the bold invader far away, And, careless though the chanticleer be wroth, With joyful bark proclaims the break of day. |
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