WHEN morning is high o'er the hilltops <br />On river and stream and lake, <br />Wherever a young breeze whispers, <br />The sun-clad dancers wake. <br />One after one up-springing, <br />They flash from their dim retreat. <br />Merry as running laughter <br />Is the news of their twinkling feet. <br />Over the floors of azure <br />Wherever the wind-flaws run, <br />Sparkling, leaping, and racing, <br />Their antics scatter the sun. <br />As long as water ripples <br />And weather is clear and glad, <br />Day after day they are dancing, <br />Never a moment sad. <br />But when through the field of heaven <br />The wings of storm take flight, <br />At a touch of the flying shadows <br />They falter and slip from sight. <br />Until at the gray day's ending, <br />As the squadrons of cloud retire, <br />They pass in the triumph of sunset <br />With banners of crimson fire.<br /><br />Bliss William Carman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dance-of-the-sunbeams/
