Morning

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;

The air was cooling and so very still,

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems,

Had not yet lost those starry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,

And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept

On the blue fields of heaven; and then there crept

A little noiseless noise among the leaves,

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;

For not the faintest motion could be seen

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.

A bush of Mayflowers with the bees about them;

Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them.

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them

Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,

That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.