MORNING
The morning wind is wooing me; her lips have swept my brow. Was ever dawn so sweet before? the land so fair as now? The wanderlust is luring to wherever roads may lead, While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but heed?
The forest whispers of its shades; of haunts where we have been,— And where may friends be better made than under God's green inn? Your mouth is warm and laughing and your voice is calling low, While yet the dew is on the hedge. So how can I but go?
NOON
The bees are humming, humming in the clover; The bobolink is singing in the rye; The brook is purling, purling in the valley, And the river's laughing, radiant, to the sky!
The buttercups are nodding in the sunlight; The winds are whispering, whispering to the pine; The joy of June has found me; as an aureole it's crowned me Because, oh best belovèd, you are mine!
In Arcady by moonlight, (Where only lovers go), There is a pool where only The fairest roses grow.
Why are the moonlit roses So sweet beyond compare? Among their purple shadows My love is waiting there.
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