Of the early sunlight up the zenith came,
Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue
The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue,
Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near,
From farm to farm the call of chanticleer
Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long,
The robin red-breast trilled his matin song,
Hid in the high old maple, while around
From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound
The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee