XII

I know a spot Of the Spring,

Where, to the sound of water sighing, Frequent Haunt

The Naiads, when the sun is lying of the Lonely

Heavy on mead and fronded tree, Naiads.

When birds are silent and the bee

Swoons in the dewed heart of the rose,

Sing hushedly.

I will repose

Upon its banks and to the spring

An answer make with hands that cling

Over this lost lyre's murmurous chords

And with their voiced quiet mingle words

Such as my shrouded soul affords

When the warm blood within my veins

Throbs heavily, and the noon sun reigns,

Who would heaven and earth unite

In one blaze of arduous light,

Till dark woods, fields, bronzed sky, and deep,

In one maniac dull dream sleep.