Sang to his dream a questioning reply:—

"Will love be less, when dead the roguish Spring,

Who, with white hands, sowed violets, whispering?

When petals of her cheeks, wan-wasted through

Of withering grief, are laid beneath the dew,

Will love be less?

"Will love be less, when comes the Summer tall?

Her throat a lily, long and spiritual:

When like a poppied swath,—hushed haunt of bees,—

Her form is laid in slumber on the leas,