The morning sits and swings In her hammock of rose and gold, Her feet just touch the sea And the edge of her garments fold; She wafts a breath to me Of the blossoms of hope and love As swinging to and fro She croons like the brooding dove.
Sing soft, swing low, Oh, rosy morn! Clasp to thy breast The day, new born.
The morning swings far out O'er the foam of the misty seas, And lights with rosy glow The tops of the tallest trees; The sleeping flowers wake At the touch of her quick'ning lips, And drink the dewy showers That fall from her finger tips.
Sing soft, swing low, Oh, rosy morn! Clasp to thy breast The day, new born.