When the Morning Comes A-brimming...

Today the morning comes a-brimming with rain-drop and leaf-plop...

When the morning comes a-brimming from a Hand we cannot see

And the sky begins a-singing mercy’s aureate melody

Then, although this birth has happened since the dawn of time began

Still it rouses something tender in its splendor once again

When the hills are bathed in purple mist or washed clean of the dark

Where every curve of earth is kissed with passion’s prism-arc

Then it makes a body feel so blessed: God’s goodness gilds the air

To light the way from rest to rest beneath His faultless care

When the sky is like an ocean without shores to cup its sea

As it spills in rills of heaven to the likes of you and me

When regardless of the season, still the wick of dawn is lit

Like a grand and glorious beacon; ah, we need to pause a bit

And praise the grace of He who never fumbles or forgets

In spite of human-error ways and masterpiece regrets

He kindly guides the darkness from night’s onyx-crested depth

And unfetters the flood-gates where the light of day is kept

Then we get a peaceful feeling as the shepherd of the stars

Ignites earth’s dungeon ceiling with the breaking of its bars

And the garden is a-glitter with diamonds of dew or frost

And the orchard is a-titter with a warbling-garbling host

And the highway is a ribbon to our given destiny

As the matrix of each moment climbs and chimes in time’s belfry

Oh, we just can’t help but wonder at hope’s thundering of grace

When morning comes a-brimming from love’s high and holy place

Now each task, however humble seems an honor to perform

For we serve One who breathes the dawn upon earth’s drowsing dorm

And no one is exempt from this; a gracious gift from Him

When morning comes a-brimming like a-singing seraphim

To offer its forgiveness to bollix of flesh and blood

When morning comes a brimming like hymns of redemption’s flood

Then forward, ever forward we embark where darkness pales

For the morning comes a-brimming from a Hand that never fails

© Janet Martin

So after reading When the Frost is on the Punkins  here and here, the tempo got caught in my head.

Here is the poem to save you a click if you have slow internet like we do sometimes...

(my favorite bit; 'the rooster's hallylooyer':)

When the Frost is On the Punkin by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and the gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin'; of the guineys and the cluckin' of the hens And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O it's then the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock They's somethin kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here - Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny monring of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock - When the frost is on the punkin and fodder's in the shock. The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries - kindo' lonesome-like, but still A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below - the clover overhead! - O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage, too! I don't know how to tell it - but if sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me - I'd want to 'commodate 'em - all the whole-indurin' flock - When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! This poem is in the public domain.