A Morning Rose

A Morning Rose - from The Mountain Muse


Forth she came from a rosy bower;
Light and lithe she moved with matchless grace,
Gliding o'er the smooth and sunlit sward;
Beautiful she looked, as if her robes
Were a part of heaven's lovely bow;
Fresh she seem'd as when the dewy leaves,
Winnowing the balmy breath of morn,
Waft upon the early beams of day
The sweet perfumes of the op'ning flowers;
Fair her form, with beauty all aglow,
Dazzling the rapt gaze with loveliness,
Which to the eye melody reveal'd,
Thrilling the soul with speechless bliss,
Dearer far than words can syllable.
Near a forest warbler trill'd his song,
And the echo of his sweetest note
In passing stole from a rose a kiss,
And softly whisper'd, "That is Mary."