Singing morning has begun. Where the wooded ranges run To far summits, there the snow Lingers yet. But down below In the quiet, green-girt places, Where full many a swift creek races From the snow-lands to the sea, Now breaks sudden harmony. Where this tree-walled clearing dreams, First a rosy promise beams As a young dawn steals up the sky Where the frozen ramparts lie. Now from dew-wet leaves a-glitter, Comes a little drowsy twitter, And the first swift spear of light Wounds at last the stubborn night. Flashing now, bright javelins Pierce the murk; and now begins— As day’s gleaming ranks deploy— Morning’s canticle of joy. First a sleepy chuckle, breaking, Tells of Laughing Jack awaking, Pausing; then, from tree to tree, Leaps unbound hilarity. Here’s the signal . . . Morning’s hush Sweetness shatters, as grey thrush, Vieing with the seraphim, Lifts his liquid matin hymn. Golden whistler joins him then, Now red robin, now blue wren; Magpie’s clarion, sounding, swelling, Caps the eager chorus welling, As a wealth of varied notes Pouring from these tuneful throats, Lifting, drifting, soars on high, Up to greet morn’s glowing sky.