Ariadne Waking

The moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking,

When Ariadne in her bower was waking;

Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard

But indistinctly yet a little bird,

That in the leaves o’erhead, waiting the sun,

Seemed answering another distant one.

She waked, but stirred not, only just to please

Her pillow-nestling cheek; while the full seas,

The birds, the leaves, the lulling love o’ernight

The happy thought of the returning light,

The sweet, self-willed content, conspired to keep

Her senses lingering in the feel of sleep;

And with a little smile she seemed to say,

“I know my love is near me, and ’tis day.”