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.