C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.
Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!
The eye of day hath oped its lids.
The early morning has gold in its mouth.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
O word and thing most beautiful!
When rosy morning glimmered oer the dales.
The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews.
Under the opening eyelids of the morn.
Yon gray lines that fret the clouds are messengers of day.
The dewy morn, with breath all incense and with cheek all bloom.
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.
Jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-top.
The morrow, fair with purple beams, dispersed the shadows of the misty night.
Morn in the white wake of the morning star Came furrowing all the orient into gold.
Sweet as dew-drops on the flowery lawns when the sky opens, and the morning dawns.
Morn, waked by the circling hours, with rosy hand unbarred the gates of light.
When the glad sun, exulting in his might, comes from the dusky-curtained tents of night.
Emma C. Embury.
The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat wake the god of day.
Mornings are mysteries; the first worlds youth,
Mans resurrection, and the futures bud Shroud in their births.
Spill not the morning (the quintessence of the day) in recreation, for sleep itself is recreation. Add not, therefore, sauce to sauces.
Bright as does the morning star appear,
Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
Darkness is fled. Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun, and blushing kiss the beam he sends to wake them.
Behold the morning! Rise up, O youth, and quickly fill thyself with this rosy wine sparkling from the crystal cup of the dawn!
Its brightness, mighty divinity! has a fleeting empire over the day, giving gladness to the fields, color to the flowers, the season of the loves, harmonious hour of wakening birds.
For nights swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, and yonder shines Auroras harbinger; at whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there, troop home to churchyards.
So, on the eastern summit, clad in gray, morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, and from his tower of mist nights watchman hurries down.
H. K. White.
Mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Let the day have a blessed baptism by giving your first waking thoughts into the bosom of God. The first hour of the morning is the rudder of the day.
Now the bright Morning-star, Days harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf.
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smiling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day.
I was always an early riser. Happy the man who is! Every morning day comes to him with a virgins love, full of bloom and freshness. The youth of nature is contagious, like the gladness of a happy child.
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth containd no tomb, And glowing into day.
The rosy-fingered morn did there disclose
Her beauty, ruddy as a blushing bride,
Gilding the marigold, painting the rose, With Indian chrysolites her cheeks were dyd.
Nor is a day lived if the dawn is left out of it, with the prospects it opens. Who speaks charmingly of nature or of mankind, like him who comes bibulous of sunrise and the fountains of waters?
O how beautiful is morning!
How the sunbeams strike the daisies
And the kingcups fill the meadow
Like a golden-shielded army Marching to the uplands fair.
D. M. Mulock.
At the morning hour, when the half-awakened sun, trampling down the lingering shadows of the west, spreads his ruby-tinted tresses over jessamines and roses, drying with cloths of gold Auroras tears of mingled fire and snow, which the suns rays converted into pearls.
The grey-eyd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth days path, and Titans fiery wheels.
Measure your health by your sympathy with morning and spring. If there is no response in you to the awakening of nature, if the prospect of an early morning walk does not banish sleep, if the warble of the first bluebird does not thrill you, know that the morning and spring of your life are past.
At last the golden oriental gate
Of greatest heaven gan to open fair;
And Phbus, fresh as bridegroom to his mate,
Came dancing forth shaking his dewy hair, And hurld his glistring beams through gloomy air.
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar-tops and hills seem burnishd gold.
Let your sleep be necessary and healthful, not idle and expensive of time, beyond the needs and conveniences of nature; and sometimes be curious to see the preparation which the sun makes when he is coming forth from his chambers of the east.
I see the spectacle of morning from the hilltop over against my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel might share. The long slender bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea of crimson light. From the earth, as a shore, I look out into that silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I dilate and conspire with the morning wind.
The eastern hanging crescent climbeth higher;
See, purple on the azure softly steals,
And Morning, faintly touched with quivering fire,
Leans on the frosty summits of the hills, Like a young girl over her hoary sire.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
What various scenes, and O! what scenes of Woe,
Are witnessd by that red and struggling beam!
The feverd patient, from his pallet low,
Through crowded hospitals beholds it stream;
The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam,
The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail,
The love-lorn wretch starts from tormenting dream;
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, Trims her sick infants couch, and soothes his feeble wail.
Faster and more fast,
Oer nights brim, day boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, oer the cloud-cups brim
Where spurting and suppressd it lay
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.