the morning breaks,
and with it lies the cool and gentle thoughts,
of what lays within it's wake,
what of the new beginnings dawn has brought,
as passions fill my eyes with golden light
the vales and hills reflect such beauty bright,
within the breeze,
the hush and mellow melody of birds,
the rustling of the leaves,
seem to whisper in their own enchanted words,
what secrets do they to each other sigh
twain death of night and birth of morn is nigh
a prayer perhaps for i,
the one so wrought with loves pure ills
for you the one whom for my love doth spill.
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