Morning Poem by Edward Robeson Taylor

Deep-brooding Night has done its worst and best,
And once again we front the new-born Day,
Where now the sickled moon with lessening ray
Hangs low upon the sky's auroral breast.
The earth, soft-garmented in robes of gray,
Drinks heaven's sweet dew with such delightful zest,
She fain would see time held a prisoner lest
The sun should sweep her present joys away.
Home kindles now its necessary fires,
Whose shafts of smoke, that gently pierce the air,
Like incense seem in worship of the Morn.
And as we list to these far-sounding lyres,
So great all grows, so most divinely fair,
The soul, fresh-winged, upsoars as if reborn.