V

Yea, let me feed on sounds that still assure Me where you hide: the brooks’, whose happy din Tells where, the deep, retired woods within, Disrobed, you bathe; the birds’, whose drowsy lure Tells where you slumber, your warm, nestling chin Soft on the pure, Pink cushion of your palm.... What better cure For care and memory’s ache Than to behold you thus, and watch you wake.