Good morning, Life — and all
Things glad and beautiful.
My pockets nothing hold,
But he that owns the gold,
The Sun, is my great friend —
His spending has no end.
Hail to the morning sky,
Which bright clouds measure high;
Hail to you birds whose throats
Would number leaves by notes;
Hail to you shady bowers,
And you green fields of flowers.
Hail to you women fair,
That make a show so rare
In cloth as white as milk —
Be't calico or silk:
Good morning, Life — and all
Things glad and beautiful.