By George Sterling

Maiden, doff thy dream, and rise!
Morning's rose is in the skies;
In the meadow I can hear
Birds in chorus crystal-clear.

Maiden, rise, and fare with me
Where expectant flowers be—
Blossoms holding thee in hope:
When thou comest, they will ope.

What to me is any bird,
If it sing by thee unheard?
What is any lovely spot,
If its blossoms know thee not?

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