By JAMES OPPENHEIM
Morning, the bold young giant.
Sticks you in his bent bow of shining blue
And shoots you toward the zenith.
This way. Wind. Forget-me-nots are little;
Stoop and uplift them.
Come up. Mole, from your subterranean plunder,
The juicy tulip roots.
Dew along the gossamer, twinkle in the garden-grass:
For one is coming hither,
One is coming hither,
The darling of the morn.
She comes; in the doorway I see her.
She steps out. Good morning!
My rival, the gale, is ahead of me, kissing her lips;
Arrow-sun from the heaven darts,
Confusing with gold her glance;
Bee thinks her lips are a rose-bud.
Brush him off, darling,
And come, come hither.
I know an angle in the fence
Where lovers may say good morning.