Fair morning sun! bright monarch of the East!
Thou joy and solace of the human heart,
Who comfortest the greatest and the least,—
How wonderful, how very fair thou art!
Fair to the horny-handed sons of toil
Who, if they mean to have their daily bread,
Must ply their trade or plough the unyielding soil
When greasy citizens are still abed.
Fair to the Bard, who oft at early dawn
Observes the op'ning flow'rs and soaring larks,
And naturally seeks an upland lawn
Whereon to make poetical remarks.
Fairest to toil-worn travellers who see
The hard-earned bed display its varied charms:
"Breakfast at 12!" they cry: and seek with glee
A long repose in Morpheus' downy arms.