
THE MORNING-GLORY. 
“Now, this is all I heard, mother, 
And all that I did see ; 
So, prithee, make my bed, mother, 
For I’m tired as I can be !’ 
The Morning-Glory, 
Maria Lowell. 
\ E wreathed about our darling’s head the Morning-Glory 
bright ; 
Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and light, 
So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say, 
She is the Morning-Glory true, and her poor types are they. 
So always from that happy time we called her by their name, 
And very fitting did it seem, for, sure as Morning came, 
Behind her cradle-bars she smiled to catch the first faint ray, 
As from the trellis smiles the flower and opens to the day. 
But not so beautiful they rear their airy cups of blue, 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light brimmed with sleep’s 
tender dew; 
And not so close their tendrils fine round their supports are 
thrown, 
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea clasped all 
hearts to her own. 






