The dreams that heralded thy birth

Were truer than the truths of earth;

And, by that far immortal Gleam,

Soul of my soul, I still would dream!

A ring of light was round thy head,

The great-eyed oxen nigh thy bed

Their cold and innocent noses bowed,

Their sweet breath rose like an incense cloud

In the blurred and mystic lanthorn light!

About the middle of the night