[From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,]

From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
  From love's deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the treees are full of sighs
  Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
  Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
  Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,
  The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
  Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.

Published in Chamber Music

Tags:

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.