Morning
THE lark now leaves his watery nest,And climbing shakes his dewy wings,He takes your window for the east,And to implore your light, he sings;Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes;Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn!Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.
EDMUND WALLER 1605–1687