Now lay thee down to sleep, and dream of me; Though thou art dead and I am living yet, Though cool thy couch and sweet thy slumbers be, Dream--do not quite forget.
Sleep all the autumn, all the winter long, With never a painted shadow from the past To haunt thee; only, when the blackbird’s song Wakens the woods at last,
When the young shoots grow lusty overhead, Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring wind grieves, When budding violets close above thee spread Their small heart-shapen leaves,
Pass, O Belovèd, to dreams from slumber deep; Recount the store that mellowing time endears, Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy sleep, Our old unchangeful years.
Lie still and listen--while thy sheltering tree Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set-- For far-off echoes of the spring and me. Dream--do not quite forget.
A beckoning spirit of gladness seemed afloat, That lightly danced in laughing air before us: The earth was all in tune, and you a note Of Nature’s happy chorus.
’Twas like a vernal morn, yet overhead The leafless boughs across the lane were knitting: The ghost of some forgotten spring, we said, O’er winter’s world comes flitting.
Or was it spring herself, that, gone astray, Beyond the alien frontier chose to tarry? Or but some bold outrider of the May, Some April emissary?
The apparition faded on the air, Capricious and incalculable comer.-- Wilt thou too pass, and leave my chill days bare, And fall’n my phantom summer?
And these--are these indeed the end, This grinning skull, this heavy loam? Do all green ways whereby we wend Lead but to yon ignoble home?
Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss; Thy lips are hives of summer still. I ask not other worlds while this Proffers me all the sweets I will.
Beneath the loveliest dream there coils a fear: Last night came she whose eyes are memories now, Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful how Love dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear. “Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear; ’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow; A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow, Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move! I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes; I heard wild wordless melodies of love, Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise; And when upon my neck she fell, my dove, I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.