And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music’s dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.
They fear’d not death!—yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!
Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy