Classic Poem

And if she slept at dawn —
While the first birds of April wove
Their young awakening song
Of Spring,
Had she not drank of beauty to the brim —
Till Love gave sleep,
Whose dearer dreams of him
Within her still
Were whispering on, sweeter, more rapturous
Than outward call?
Nor would she wake to hear
The first lark of Creation's own
Experimental morn,
If so it were
To miss recovered accents
Like to those unheard
Save by the spirit sense.

And if she slept at dawn —
While the first birds of April wove
Their young awakening song,
Oh, Keeper of her heart!
Outsoaring them
Her soul was on the wing.