Poem by Thomas Bateson

* * *

Sister, awake! close not your eyes, 	
	The day her light discloses; 	
And the bright morning doth arise 	
	Out of her bed of roses. 	
 	
See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye, 	
	In at our window peeping; 	
Lo, how he blusheth to espy 	
	Us idle wenches sleeping! 	
 	
Therefore awake, make haste I say, 	
	And let us without staying 	
All in our gowns of green so gay 	
	Into the park a maying.

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