Morning In Camp - Poem by Herbert Bashford
A BED of ashes and a half-burned brand
Now mark the spot where last night’s campfire sprung
And licked the dark with slender, scarlet tongue;
The sea draws back from shores of yellow sand,
Nor speaks lest he awake the sleeping land.
Tall trees grow out of shadows; high among
Their sombre boughs one clear, sweet song is sung,
In deep ravine by drooping cedars spanned,
All drowned in gloom; a flying pheasant’s whirr
Rends morning’s solemn hush; gray rabbits run
Across the clovered glade, while far away
Upon the hills each huge, expectant fir
Holds open arms in welcome to the sun—
Great, pulsing heart of bold, advancing day!
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