Reclining on a grassy mound,
His head a velvet cushion found,
And bushes weave a curtain round;
Here ponders he the morning's scene,
Till things that are with things that seem
Together blend and form a dream.
Again he feels red-hot with fright,
Once more his tale he must recite,
Must conjure up a thousand lies
To blind Suspicion's wakeful eyes—