Morn

Sweet is the Morn where'er it shines,
Whether amid my Tuscan vines,
Or where Sorrento's shadows play
At hide-and-seek along the bay,
Or high Amalfi takes its turn,
Until they rest on low Salem.
And here too once the Morn was sweet,
For here I heard the tread of feet
Upon the pebbles wet with dew;
Sweet was the Morn, it breath'd of you.