Morning without you is a dwindled dawn.

Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.

The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.

I'm nobody, who are you?