SINGING morning has begun.
    Where the wooded ranges run
To far summits, there the snow
    Lingers yet. But down below
In the quiet, green-girt places,
    Where full many a swift creek races
From the snow-lands to the sea,
    Now breaks sudden harmony.

Where this tree-walled clearing dreams,
    First a rosy promise beams
As a young dawn steals up the sky
    Where the frozen ramparts lie.
Now from dew-wet leaves a-glitter,
    Comes a little drowsy twitter,
And the first swift spear of light
    Wounds at last the stubborn night.

Flashing now, bright javelins
    Pierce the murk; and now begins—
As day’s gleaming ranks deploy—
    Morning’s canticle of joy.
First a sleepy chuckle, breaking,
    Tells of Laughing Jack awaking,
Pausing; then, from tree to tree,
    Leaps unbound hilarity.

Here’s the signal . . . Morning’s hush
    Sweetness shatters, as grey thrush,
Vieing with the seraphim,
    Lifts his liquid matin hymn.
Golden whistler joins him then,
    Now red robin, now blue wren;
Magpie’s clarion, sounding, swelling,
    Caps the eager chorus welling,
As a wealth of varied notes
    Pouring from these tuneful throats,
Lifting, drifting, soars on high,
    Up to greet morn’s glowing sky.