Sunday Morning

Softly the cool breath of the early morn,
Swamp-scented air, fragrant with deep lagoons
And water-lilies, stole on through the fields
Of cotton, whispering a sighing song.
'Twas Sunday morning then, and everywhere
The May dew rolled away in diadems.
Another day was born with floods of light;
The grass with newer green all wet with dew
Gave welcoming. And rose hues spent with yesterday
Found blushes still and sent out night-born sweets
To mingle with a thousand other spicy
Airs and perfumes of the jessamine,
And wild aromas of the summer air.
And murmured low the sycamores o'erhead
With whisperings of passing summer winds.
The dapple sunshine kissed and kissed their leaves,
And golden gleams were on the fields. Rich were
The blackbird's notes and joyous sounds from all
The feathered tribes. In lazy lengths the bayou went
With stretches on, and murmuring low songs
Like those of love. There floated far and wide
The queenly water-lilies white, perfuming
All the Sunday air.


And like a dove
Of peace, fair Nitta Yuma sat amid
Her spreading figs and rich magnolia blooms
In rest; for there was come the hallowed day,
The Sabbath of the Lord.
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