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Young Love
lies sleeping
In May-time of the year,
Among the
lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs
come grazing,
White doves come building there:
And
round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft
moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad
leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There wind
and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There
twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the
dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or
perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh,
in waking
The sights are no so fair,
And song and
silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love
lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone, -
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He
sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And
tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him
perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through
the pauses
The perfect silence calms:
Oh, poor the
voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor
earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So
fails the summer
With warm delicious breath;
And
what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw
close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change
cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here
first the violets
Perhaps with bud unseen,
And a
dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
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