Morn

Sweet is the Morn where'er it shines,
Whether amid my Tuscan vines,
Or where Sorrento's shadows play
At hide-and-seek along the bay,
Or high Amalfi takes its turn,
Until they rest on high Salern.

And here too once the Morn was sweet,
For here I heard the tread of feet
Upon the pebbles wet with dew;
Sweet was the Morn, it breath'd of you.
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