MORNING. 
My golden Laburnum— 
(I’ve finished my store, 
Yet tarry a moment, 
I’ll think of some more.) 
Come ! let me clasp thy hand 
Warmly in mine, 
My glowing Nasturtian, 
My sweet Columbine. 
Sing to me softly, 
My Calla, my Balm ! 
Let our voices ascend 
In a sweet morning psalm. 
House thee, my Dahlia, 
I’m waiting thee long! 
Ah, wherefore compel mo 
To sigh for thy song ! 
But—would you believe it? 
She’s slumbering fast! 
She’s nothing at all 
But a Poppy, at last I 
