A morn that only God could give;
A morn in which to rise and live.
A noon so full with things to do,
To make the dreams of life come true;
An eve so still I felt His breath
That stayed the passing wings of Death;
A night brimmed o’er with love to spare,
God must have walked among us there;
And now, I go to ask of Him
Will He forgive my idle whim:
For I, the dreamer, cought a gleam
And only wove a poet’s dream.

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