Our mouths are fresh with morning on the hills,
And sleep-washed bodies wake with quickened thought
To sounds of day, to a new strain of words
Rising within our throats like soaring birds.
The winds are up, the coves blow green and cool
With woolly leaves, and catkins thresh the air
Now loud with rusty cries of crows in flight;
The day has come, the sun’s hot-eyed stare
Has quieted the sleepless wanderers of the night.
Light in our hands the ax splits the oak,
The plow blades glide unerring through the earth
And all the fields awake, and all our world is free.
Here is a day ridge-broken and apart,
This is a morning bright upon the heart.