 | Later Poems |  |
51
To Miranda, who Sleeps
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well!
The dawning light hath set the world astir
With chirp and warble of birds, and faery whirr
Of winglets, quivering in the broken spell
That sleep had laid on nature: strange to tell,
Miranda sleepeth yet; strange, for it were
A wonder if the delicate ear of her
Knew not this multitudinous matin-bell.
The dawning light hath set the world astir
With chirp and warble of birds, and faery whirr
Of winglets, quivering in the broken spell
That sleep had laid on nature: strange to tell,
Miranda sleepeth yet; strange, for it were
A wonder if the delicate ear of her
Knew not this multitudinous matin-bell.
But still Miranda sleeps! What was to meet
In dreamland, what, or whom, for thee to lie
Unmindful of the glory of earth and sky,
With little quiet hands and quiet feet?
And still thou sleepest, and thy sleep is sweet.—
Dear heart, I would not waken thee, not I.
In dreamland, what, or whom, for thee to lie
Unmindful of the glory of earth and sky,
With little quiet hands and quiet feet?
And still thou sleepest, and thy sleep is sweet.—
Dear heart, I would not waken thee, not I.
| Later Poems | |