But it's morning. Within my hands is another day. Another day to listen and love and walk and glory. I am here for another day.

For the mind disturbed, the still beauty of dawn is nature's finest balm.

The early bird gets the early worm.

Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.

How I have loved this house in the morning before we are all awake and tangled together like badly cast fishing lines.

It is only your habitual late riser who takes in the full flavor of Nature at those rare intervals when he gets up to go afishing. He brings virginal emotions and unsatiated eyes to the sparkling freshness of earth and stream and sky.

It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.

So far as I know, anything worth hearing is not usually uttered at seven o'clock in the morning; and if it is, it will generally be repeated at a more reasonable hour for a larger and more wakeful audience.

Oft when the white, still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I have felt it like a glory in my heart.

The long morning shadows lay as still and dark as lakes and patterned the rough ground with straight margins.