2
On many sylvan eves of childhood thou
Didst woo my homeward path with tenderness,
Woo till the awing owlet ceased to cow
With his chill screech of quavering distress.
At phantom midnight wakened I have heard
Thy mated dreams from the wind-eerie elm,
And as a potion medicined and myrrhed,
As an enchantment's runic utterance,
It would draw sleep back to her lulling realm
Over my lids till day should disentrance.