THE Angels kiss her while she sleeps, And leave their freshness on her breath: Star after star, descending, peeps Along her loose hair, dark as death: From his low nest the night- wind creeps, And o'er her bosom wandereth. 'Tis morning in their pure embrace The airs of dawn their playmate greet: Dusk fields expect their wonted grace, Those silken touches of swift feet: With songs the birds salute her face; And Silence doth her voice entreat! |