The Dreamer
Oh , not for her the early violet,
The swarm-like buds upon the fruit-trees set,
The robin singing in the first spring rain.
She will have gone ere these can come again.
And therefore is it that soft, pitying Sleep,
Each night, by ways the Winter cannot keep,
Brings her where bloom the flowers her childhood knew
In griefless places kissed by sun and dew.
The swarm-like buds upon the fruit-trees set,
The robin singing in the first spring rain.
She will have gone ere these can come again.
And therefore is it that soft, pitying Sleep,
Each night, by ways the Winter cannot keep,
Brings her where bloom the flowers her childhood knew
In griefless places kissed by sun and dew.
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