Poetry

Morning’s at Seven

Another beautiful morning here.
Pure Luck is home, and in honor of his return, a little poetry would seem to be in order.

The year’s at the spring
And the day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his Heaven –
All’s right with the world!

Robert Browning
(from Pippa Passes)

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