Young Love lies sleeping In May-time of the year,Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light:White lambs come grazing, White doves come building there:And round about him The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow For oh, a softer cheek;Broad leaves cast shadow Upon the heavy eyes:There winds and waters Grow lulled and scarcely speak;There twilight lingers The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming; But who shall tell the dream?A perfect sunlight On rustling forest tips;Or perfect moonlight Upon a rippling stream;Or perfect silence, Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him To fill the drowsy air;Weave silent dances Around him to and fro;For oh, in waking The sights are not so fair,And song and silence Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming Till summer days are gone,--Dreaming and drowsing Away to perfect sleep:He sees the beauty Sun hath not looked upon,And tastes the fountain Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music Doth hush unto his rest,And through the pauses The perfect silence calms:Oh, poor the voices Of earth from east to west,And poor earth's stillness Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing Away to poppied death;Cool shadows deepen Across the sleeping face:So fails the summer With warm, delicious breath;And what hath autumn To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains Of branched evergreen;Change cannot touch them With fading fingers sere:Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen,And a dove, may be, Return to nestle here.