But not the sleep which the cold tomb implies;
But rather would I rest for ages so
That in my breast the strength of life might rise
In gentle wavelets, heaving to and fro.
The while that in my ears by night and day,
A sweet voice sang of ceaseless love to me;
And o’er me leaned, greening in every spray
And faintly whispering, my dark cedar[3] tree.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Lit., “oak.”