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
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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. |
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