Morning
FAR over the hills, from out of the east,
Came the bright-winged angel, Day;
The clouds she blew from her finger tips,
And the sea and the sky where the azure dips
Blushed red at the touch of her ruby lips,
While the valley mist, by their sweetness kissed,
Silently floated away.
She brushed the dew from the sleeping flowers,
She gave the birds a warning;
She breathed on the air, and a soft breeze crept
Into the room where the children slept.
They woke with its touch, and from Dreamland stept
To the casement bright, and with glad delight,
Uttered a sweet "Good morning."
Evening
The sun's last refs have lit the hills,
And turned to purple, blue;
The half-grown moon, like a silver boat,
In a cloudy sea is set afloat;
The song has died in the day-bird's throat,
And the whip-poor-will sounds his plaintive note,
While the old owl asks, "Who‘s ho?"
The valley mist to a bridal veil
Is changed by the mellow light;
'Neath a dewy spread are the flowers prest,
And the weary children seek their rest
As tired birds to the mother's breast;
The breath of the rose steals to their nest,
And murmurs a soft "Good night."
S. ISADORE SUTHERLAND