Classic Poem

'Tis the Siesta's languid hour
The sun burns fierce & strong
Softly the bird in Helen's bower
Soothes her light sleep with song
Of tropic isles & groves it sings
She dreams of mountains grey
Where the lone heron folds its wings
By streams—how far away!

Fain would that weary bird return
Over the sea's white foam
Gladly would Helen cease to mourn
Safe in her mountain home
the damask buds of summer breathe
Their fragrance through her bower
In sleep she roams where summer heath
Waves in the winds its flower

Deeply the lowland river flows
Its rush sounds in her dreams
She thinks the fall of winter snows
Have swelled her native streams
All in meridian light she lies
Faint in this burning noon
To her it seems that evening skies
Disclose a rising moon

No sound is in her garden heard
Save the soft hum of bees
Scarcely a blossom's leafe is stirred
So softly swells the breeze
That silence sinks too on her sleep
But there the sleep of night
Glides on with dews & shadows deep
Over a hill's dim height

The bird is flown—her dream is gone
Moon—hills—and shadows wane
And Helen lies awake, alone
She fain would sleep again
No lady rise—the time of sleep
For thee has glided by
Wake now & watch the transient sweep
Of clouds across the sky

Sit by the dial-piece—as oft
Thy weary wont has been
And mark the sunshine passing soft
Each shadowed hour between
And wait for night for sunset yearn
Then long again for day
Thus shalt thou wait & watch & mourn
Till life is past away!