The Sleeper

The Lovely, sleeping, lay in bed,
Her limbs, from quiet foot to chin,
Still as the dust of one that's dead
Whose spirit waits the entering-in.

Yet her young cheek with life's faint dye
Was mantled o'er; her gentle breast
Like sea at peace with starry sky,
Moved with a heart at rest.

Fair country of a thousand springs,
Calm hill and vale! Those hidden eyes
And tongue that daylong talks and sings,
Wait only for the sun to rise.

Let but a bird call in that ear,
Let beam of day that window wan,
This hidden one will, wakening, hear,
And deathlike slumber-swoon be gone:

Her ardent eyes once more will shine,
She will uplift her hair-crowned head;
At lip, miraculous, life's wine,
At hand, its wondrous bread.
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