AT MORNING.
When I 6ee her sleeping there, in the ■ grey of morning, Peace .upon her face and her eyelids down, The first of day' arriving for her cheeks' adorning, Glinting in her treeses on the tints, of . brown. Sacred, is shp to me, in the new day breaking; There's a trill of birds in the light outside; On this half the world all things are ■ a-waking, . . . Life flowing wondrously, like a flowing tideSacred is she to me as she lies there -'.-, sleeping, ' Sacred and mysterious—and 0 so dear to me: : The treasure of all treasure that God - . -gave to me for keeping/ To journey with and cherish, midst the . mystery. , . —Frederick Niven. Athenaeum.
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Bibliographic details
Evening Post, Volume XCIII, Issue 48, 24 February 1917, Page 16
Word Count
114AT MORNING. Evening Post, Volume XCIII, Issue 48, 24 February 1917, Page 16
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