When morning tiptoes, soft and gray,
And night begins to flee,
The silent dewdrops learn to play
Upon the waking tree.

The sun, a painter, dips his brush
In gold and rose and flame,
To color forth the thrush’s thrush
And whisper every name—

The name of every leaf unfurled,
Of every blade of grass,
That stirs to life throughout the world
As quiet shadows pass.

But noon is brief, and soon the west
Calls back the burning light;
The weary world prepares for rest,
And welcomes gentle night.

So goes the day, a whispered rhyme,
A verse of sun and shade,
A measured, ever-changing time
In which our lives are made.

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