I’m in the process of cleaning and organizing my home office. Today, I rediscovered a poem that I used to have posted to my wall a couple of jobs back. It was sent to me by my wife and expresses a romanticism and beauty that continues to haunt me.

Morning by Paul Laurence Dunbar

The mist has left the greening plain,
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
The coquette rose awakes again
  Her lovely self adorning.
The Wind is hiding in the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
Until the rose says, "Kiss me, please,"
  ‘Tis morning, ’tis morning.

With staff in hand and careless-free
The wanderer fares right jauntily,
For towns and houses are, thinks he,
  For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing,
And in its deep a song I bring,
Come, love, and we together sing,
"’Tis morning, ’tis morning."