A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Sleeping Beauty (Louise-Victorine Ackermann)
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
Sleep for a hundred years held fast
A princess in a lonely wood,
Springs, summers, autumns, winters past
Successive, o'er that solitude.
Time flew: all nature slept around,
The breeze, it seemed, had lost its wing,
And raised nor in the leaves a sound,
Nor ripple in the brook or spring.
The wild birds had forgot to sing,
And on its green and fragile stem
The rosebud red, half opening
Remained half open, like a gem
Through long mysterious years, nor shed
A single leaflet all the time.
What broke this sleep, of magic bred?
You know the tale,—a prince was led
By chance or destiny; he saw
The Beauty in her sleep sublime,
And then, and then, beneath the moon,
Obedient to an unknown law,
He kissed her lips, and broke her swoon.
Blushing, confused, but with a smile,
The princess woke in strange surprise.
Oh, strange illumined picture—scroll,
Born of some poet's idle mood!
We see thee daily with our eyes,
Nor deem we see thee all the while!
Love is the Wakening prince; the Soul
The Sleeping Beauty of the wood.