Irene's Dream
We whisper tales of some mysterious fate;
That wise and fools alike, the good and bad,
May shudder past her never-opened gate,
As from a dungeon sad,
And call the lovely, lonely creature mad.
That wise and fools alike, the good and bad,
May shudder past her never-opened gate,
As from a dungeon sad,
And call the lovely, lonely creature mad.
III.—THE DREAM. MAY
A tourist on his native English ground,
One sweet May afternoon, did Florestan
Seek for his dog strayed on some idle chase.
There was a beauty in the land around,
A sweet and tender sameness, grave perchance
And dim, in still mid-summer, but in spring
Smiling with all the ornaments of youth,
When April's greenery, dropped here and there
With light touch on the framework of the trees,
Had spread and deepened to the bowery grace
And snowy blossom of exuberant May.
And low, veiled warblings wandering through the air
All in the loudest, maddest bird-song burst.
And deepest thickets and the loneliest lanes
Vibrated to the midnight nightingale.
And narrow pathways, parting the rich grass,
Tempted the idler o'er the meadow stile,
His feet bedropt with gold-dust as he walked,
One sweet May afternoon, did Florestan
Seek for his dog strayed on some idle chase.
There was a beauty in the land around,
A sweet and tender sameness, grave perchance
And dim, in still mid-summer, but in spring
Smiling with all the ornaments of youth,
When April's greenery, dropped here and there
With light touch on the framework of the trees,
Had spread and deepened to the bowery grace
And snowy blossom of exuberant May.
And low, veiled warblings wandering through the air
All in the loudest, maddest bird-song burst.
And deepest thickets and the loneliest lanes
Vibrated to the midnight nightingale.
And narrow pathways, parting the rich grass,
Tempted the idler o'er the meadow stile,
His feet bedropt with gold-dust as he walked,
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