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Entincturing with their breath the roving wind
That wooes them in their sweetness, while they seem,
As if in conscious life, to glow with joy.
These, Morning, are thy charms; and ever new,
From bounding childhood down to tottering age,
To hearts with inborn tenderness endowed,
And natures finely tuned, they yield delight.

  Yet 'tis when hearts most leap with gladsome life,
And passion's impulses; with eager hopes,
Imaginations, fancies, visions, dreams,
And, born of these, emotions, like pent fires
That will not be repressed, but force their way;
'Tis when youth's throbbing pulses send their blood
Swift coursing through the veins, and every sense
And sensibility is quick and keen;
'Tis most of all when love, pure, happy love,
So permeates with its subtile force the breast,
That thought and purpose, sympathy and will,
Delighted own its sway; oh, yes! 'tis then
That most the world enrobes itself in light,