Soft breaths of wind that gently pass,
Sigh in the branches of a tree,
And whisper in the tangled grass;
The early droning of a bee,
Shaking the dew from dripping wings
Among the blossoms on the lawn;
The sprightly chirp of waking things.
These are the voices of the dawn.
The falling of a loosened leaf,
That seems loud where all is so still;
A field-mouse rustling in a sheaf;
The low of kine around the hill;
A little tinkling waterfall,
Whose bubbles gurgle and are gone;
A skylark’s song; a robin’s call.
These are the voices of the dawn.