’t was summer, and the spot a cool retreat—
Where curious eyes came not, nor footstep rude
Disturbed the lovers’ chosen solitude:
Beneath an oak there was a mossy seat,
Where we reclined, while birds above us wooed
Their mates in songs voluptuously sweet....
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Even at their fairest still I love the less |
What was my dream? Though consciousness be clear, |
I died; they wrapped me in a shroud, |
It is in Winter that we dream of Spring; Though all the birds be silent,—though |
Were i transported to some distant star Our world begun anew, as when of yore |
Our bugles sang truce,—for the night-cloud had lowered, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,... |
From “Irish Melodies” |
Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, |
In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay; He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, |