The sound of the morning, the song of the thrush
And the wind in the poppies that cover the lea.
The breeze sings its songs of the surf on the strand
And the tang on the tongue is the salt from the sea.
In the quiet of morning it called you away
Though you said that your dream would not keep up apart.
The wind from the ocean is cold as my bed
And howls in the hollow where you plucked my heart.
The colours of morning the greens and the gold
The white of the blossom that hung on the tree
And the blood red of petals, scattered and spoiled
By the salt-tangy breeze that blows in from the sea.