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She comes riding early in the morning |
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Round about four to seven. |
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No one's ever out at that hour |
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With eyes that see |
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Her touch the morning flowers secretly |
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And the leaves slow their commotion |
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And the great trees gently sway |
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Like an ocean on a still day |
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And raise in praise their arms to the sun |
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Who announces the day has begun |
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At eight frames a second |
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And |
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Velvety shadows in misty meadows |
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Are changing colours so softly |
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With care the sun |
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Puts colour in his drawing |
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And rises to inspect |
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His masterpiece this morning |
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So perfect |
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And as she rides the gold and silver miles |
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Only the sun is sure |
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What it is that she smiles for |
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She leaves with no sign of what she has done |
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Though her morning rise known by everyone |
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I'll tell you her name and it's dawn. |
