In the Morning

by Willis Boyd Allen

Waiting for whate’er the Father

Calls His child to do and bear;

Waiting, as a thirsty flower

Waits the morning dew and shower.

Summers come and summers go,

Sparrows flutter to and fro,

Autumn breezes murmur low;

“Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting,

With the sunshine in her hair!”