Purple Morning Off The Hills Poem by James McLain

As for day,
the night is slow, then when it came.
The clock the hands they swept behind the mist.
Obstructed by a ruby sheen clear haze.
Abrupt the noise the musket shouts it spills.
The purple morning off the hills.

Gazing there into the sun I turned about it east.
Sunrise shook the dew out from the fold.
The happy sounds the minstrel makes,
his drummer which upon is beating, takes.
It is rearranged around the bird and their themselves
the music that the cardinal red it makes.

(The wind is sighing through the leafy trees)
The apple garden to the south had shone,
like the morning jewel.
Was the guest of this enormous place,
a soldier in the parlor to that place around, the pool.