Classic Poem

And if one falls asleep, through labour long,
Why, what shall the divine awaking be?
Surely no angry word; but some soft song
Sung 'neath the casement, — as from summer tree
The nightingales chant, loud and strenuously:
Or as the thrushes, some wild day in spring,
Hurl from dank copse to copse their stormy glee
And make the wet surrounding meadows ring.
If thou dost need awakening, I will bring
My harp, and 'neath thy window sweep the chords,
Or flutter o'er thy brow my vocal wing
And gently lift thy tresses: — let the swords
Of violent speech be snapped; and if I miss
The morn and sleep on, — wake me by a kiss!