To a Lady Sleeping

О thou whose fringéd lids I gaze upon,

Through whose dim brain the wingéd dreams are borne,

Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,

In honour of the silverfleckéd morn:

Long hath the white wave of the virgin light

Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark.

Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,

Though long ago listening the poiséd lark,

With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,

Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.