Yet I smote him on the face!
Ah! but when the poplars quiver
In the hot noon, cold o'erhead,
Sometimes with a spasm I shiver;
Sometimes round me gaze with dread.
Ah! and when the silver willow
Whitens in the moonlight gale,
From my hectic, grassy pillow,
I hear, sometimes, that infant's wail!
—Aubrey de Vere.