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siesta.
(Pray you do not mark!
I pray you shut the doors
On your fine brains—be sure
'Tis only foolish dreaming,
Unfit for wits like yours.)
I pray you shut the doors
On your fine brains—be sure
'Tis only foolish dreaming,
Unfit for wits like yours.)
Leaves glance light above—
Boughs 'beneath me yield,
Moving like long waves,
Or golden rye a-dreaming
On a July field.
Boughs 'beneath me yield,
Moving like long waves,
Or golden rye a-dreaming
On a July field.
My eyelids softly closing,
Rarer sights I see;
While all the outer music,
All the gay leaves' dreaming
Seem to follow me.
Rarer sights I see;
While all the outer music,
All the gay leaves' dreaming
Seem to follow me.
Feeling, scarcely thought,
Old sweet grief and mirth,
Old sweet grief and mirth,
