Morning glory, morning glory
Fragile as a fairy story,
Robed in gowns of purple and of white and red,
Diademed with dew,
There are none so fair as you,
Empress of the world of blossoms ere the youth of day is dead.

Lovely handmaid of the morning,
Lowly earthly scenes adorning,
An enchantress who is peerless and is proud,
Decked in brilliant blooms,
Like the silks of Tyrian looms,
Or the oriental splendors of a spangled sunrise cloud.

But amid the noonday splendor
Fade away your bosoms tender,
As the dewdrops vanish from your feverish face;
So you pant and pine,
Ere the dazzling day's decline,
Losing all your glow of color and your gladsomeness and grace.

So I ponder and remember
In a green and gold September,
I have seen a maiden fair and frail as you;
But she drooped and died,
As you perish in your pride,
For the blithest and the brightest vanish with the morning dew.

Morning glory, morning glory,
From her tombstone old and hoary,
Do your dying blossoms go to meet her there?
There in marvelous morn,
Plucking roses with no thorn,
In the empire of the angels, does she heed my heart's despair?

So I bless you now, and kiss you,
Tell her, "Darling, how I miss you!
If in heaven you are treading, sweet, today,
Does your bosom thrill
When you hear I love you still,
And are you still faithful, sweetheart, to your lover far away?"