That I half think the things I see
Are but a dream, and I shall be
Lying beside you, when I wake,
Upon the lawn beneath the brake,
With the hazel copse behind my head,
And the new-mown fields before me spread.
It is just twilight: that sweet time
Is short-lived in this radiant clime,—
Where the bright day, and night more bright,
Upon the horizon's verge unite,