Morning Glory

Oh, tender, little morning-glory

Reaching for the sun,

On slender vines you twist and climb

Ere, soon your days are done.

You tarry not, but make good haste

Of every passing hour;

Though rain and shine would claim your prime,

You clothe yourself in flower.

Though not bold, nor very rare,

Your blooms show purest blue;

Inside those spheres, collected there,

Shine drops of heaven's dew.

Little glory you grace the morn

With the beauty you bestow;

See not you, the moth nor thorn

In the garden where you grow.

Oh, tender, little morning glory

Reaching for the sun,

You surpass the other flowers

Each and every one.

by

Athlyn Green

Awakenings