Canto LXVI

When in the down I sink my head,

      Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath;

      Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death,

Nor can I dream of thee as dead:

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn,

      When all our path was fresh with dew,

      And all the bugle breezes blew

Reveillée to the breaking morn.

But what is this? I turn about,

      I find a trouble in thine eye

      Which makes me sad I know not why,

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt:

But ere the lark hath left the lea

      I wake, and I discern the truth;

      It is the trouble of my youth

That foolish sleep transfers to thee.