THE DAY-DREAM.

PROLOGUE.

O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has past away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.

As by the lattice you reclined,

I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming- and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last

Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past,

And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw,

So take the broidery-frame, and add

And I will tell it. Turn your face,

Nor look with that too-earnest eye The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And ordered words asunder fly.

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;

Here rests the sap within the leaf,

Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled,

Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn.
The fountain to his place returns

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.

Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,

THE DAY-DREAM.

PROLOGUE.

O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has past away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.

As by the lattice you reclined,

I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind,

A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last

Across my fancy, brooding warm,

The reflex of a legend past,

And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw,

So take the broidery-frame, and add

And I will tell it. Turn your face,

Nor look with that too-earnest eye· The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And ordered words asunder fly.

THE SLEEPING PALACE.

The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains;

Here rests the sap within the leaf,

Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb.

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn.
The fountain to his place returns

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,

THE DAY-DREAM.

PROLOGUE.

O, LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has past away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.

As by the lattice you reclined,

I went through many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dreamed, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past,

And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw,

So take the broidery-frame, and add