Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

On the Morning of Christ's Nativity Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.