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Morning Song
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

The eastern sky is streaked with red,
   The weary night is done,
And from his distant ocean bed
   Rolls up the morning sun.
The dew, like tiny silver beads
   Bespread o'er velvet green,
Is scattered on the wakeful meads
   By angel hands unseen.
"Good-morrow, robin in the trees!"
   The star-eyed daisy cries;
"Good-morrow," sings the morning breeze
   Unto the ruddy skies;
"Good-morrow, every living thing!"
   Kind Nature seems to say,
And all her works devoutly sing
   A hymn to birth of day,
   So, haste, without delay,
Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing,
   And to your homes away!

 

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