None but the lark so shrill and clear; / How at heaven's gates she claps her wings, / The morn not waking till she sings.

A clear conscience is a sure card.

The sun shineth upon the dunghill, and is not corrupted

This is the month and this the happy morn.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,/ The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, / The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, / No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

Under the opening eye-lids of the morn.