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The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Check’ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels.
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The horns of the morning Are blowing, are shining….
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The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant and the woods are green.
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The landscape was clothed in a mild and quiet light, in which the woods and fences checkered and partitioned it with new regularity, and rough and uneven fields stretched away with lawn-like smoothness to the horizon, and the clouds, finely distinct and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery to hang over fairyland. The world seemed decked for some holiday or prouder pageantry … like a green lane into a country maze, at the season when fruit-trees are in blossom.
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The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of Dews.
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The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,– And glowing into day.
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The Morn! she is the source of all sighs, The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times The same calm quiet look she had.
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The Morning Comes Before the Sun Awake thee, my Lady-Love! Wake thee, and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes.
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The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands.
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The morning hour has gold at the mouth. [Ger., Morgen Stunde hat Gold im Munde.]
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The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.
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The morrow, fair with purple beams, dispersed the shadows of the misty night.
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The rosy-fingered morn did there disclose Her beauty, ruddy as a blushing bride, Gilding the marigold, painting the rose, With Indian chrysolites her cheeks were dy’d.
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The sky calls To the deaf earth. The proverbial disarray Of morning corrects itself as you stand up. You are wearing a text.
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The stillness of the early morning scene enables me to take in and enjoy many things which pass me by during the bustle of the day. First, there are the scents, which seem even more generous with their offerings than they are in the evening.
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The stillness was intense and almost conscious, as if it were a natural Sabbath, and we fancied that the morning was the evening of a celestial day.
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
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The yellow fog came creeping down The bridges, till the houses’ walls Seemed changed to shadows, and St. Paul’s Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.
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There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning….
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